Again, I check my appetite.   None for work or play.
None for doing.
To do is to want is
                           to call down on your head
another cycle of wanting.   Each little
accomplishment,
eating one bright aril in Hades.

A malign efficiency in the world
is accruing.   Fed
        by doing’s light machinery.
I hear it creak, engaging
overhead, as on a knuckled chain—
like a lift that passes by
with, over and over,
the offer of an empty seat.

Am I a fugitive?
In the white field I’ll lie down.   Fear
barges my heart open,
       but I’ll keep quiet and still.
And low.

If I just don’t do, eat, fuck, work—accrue,
maybe time won’t
find me