Tomorrow
I’m gonna do it.
This thing I’ve been diverting from.
No more sidestepping the situation
Or jumping desert sweat on hotplate rock
Or leaving fly-spun fruit in crusted brook.
This has simmered away in hope, for long enough.
Like pressured steam from the very vent of me -
Excuses, promises, commitment - all lost in the boil
The condensed atoms of ‘if’ and ‘but’ -
Like rolling mist, clinging,
To a mountainside.