by Robert Gould
I drank it cold and thick like it was air,
and I had run a mile before breakfast.
It sank its teeth into the week before
and flicked its head, ripping my pain apart.
I sank into my chair and felt at home,
this town standing over with open arms.
For once I thought I could belong, for once
I felt what they did in their raging herds.
They sweat and move as though they are wounded,
yet they thrive in the face of their captor.
The face of all the world is changed, I think.
It shifted, and I found a way to live.
The solution is fluid and finite.
I drank it cold, and thanked the world that night.