American Side at 25
I was the world's worst.
Slowly, I re-enacted our lives through
a series terrifically executed mistakes,
composing a manifesto on the inconsistency of regret.
The moon goes up.
The moon comes down.
I realize, now, that I have misspent too much time
closely examining the controlled melancholy
of my ticking wristwatch.
A hundred years ago,
I would have climbed a mountain.
Mistaking heat-lightning for a spirit vision
an anti-legend would have been constructed:
at ten he suffers night tremors
at twenty, drunk for the first time
at twenty-five, climbs mountain.
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