twig-like feet twist into punchlines
when i swim into a throw
"trying" is a bucket of diamonds
turned to shit when i make it my own

still, tensing slightly, i plunge in again
subconsciously jarred by the echo of shame
hitting faster and harder
while watching things end up the same

this goes on for an hour
sometimes two, three, or more
and i return home to a glowing monitor
like friends return to a childhood shore

i sneak up with hot tea
on a paper, dim, still, an unknowable hole
suddenly dragging me into a battle
where "trying" is all that the son-of-a-bitch will ever let me know