an unfocused flame

is it too much to ask
to care about the present and find a path that is not glittered
with nightmares in between
late movies and turning-out-of-sleep
phone calls and talks of the economy
and the taking of coffee and tea
and the cigarettes i clutch in my fist?
too much to ask to hold a candle to the pain and the scars
that scrape a path to the light of day
and for heading in the “right direction”?

with the stars always on my trail and my knuckle pressed
against the radiator, just trying to spare some heat.
and the sky with the lid on it and the woman with the broken wing, 
begging for another drink. how could i find my way onward, 
how could i tell you who i am or what i am looking for?

when i am stretched and faulted for my sins,
with my hand pressed to the cross,
still begging for a pin. and through all of this,
wishing for nothing more than to wipe the dirty plate and forget everything

in between all of this, i don’t ask for a savior or a hand to hold or
a ring on my cracked finger, or a new car or a job to cradle
my weary bones or someone to wash my dirty feet. but when i awake,
the mirror spits fire and motions me forward for another day. sleep walking,
until the coffee mugs break and the walls wither and sag.