I’ve Begun to Run Out of Ideas, Good or Bad, by Tim Lane

 

I’ve Begun to Run Out of Ideas, Good or Bad

by Tim Lane

 

Some mornings they

break apart into their basic elements,

float above the cattails like a white autumn mist.

 

They come along in pairs

or groups—like the lovers, like the joggers—

some fly solo.

 

I outrun some, fall behind some others.

 

Sometimes I have

a hard time just finishing a sentence.

 

I might be able to hold on to them better

if the worst ones spread & flapped their silver wings—

glided to the other side like that solitary heron.