Read a poem by another poet written
on the same day:

The bathrooms
confessional like
air always brings
up the same questions.

Did I make the right
choice? Where is the
purpose and meaning?
Is this it?

The ill chasing of semantics.
For what? Illumination?
Resolution? I do not know what to
name it.

Because it is a revolving
world and I have always
trusted in sleep.

Now there's some meaning
for you.

Belly calls, eyes whine.
A favorite itch and new
action begins. Or is it
just repetition and failed
memory.