This thing will shake you
like a cosmic dog bone.
Everything you think
about who you are
is not a thing at all
but a passing phase.
All those true beliefs
like Pullman cars coupled to your ass.
They’ll be just as gone, too,
when this thing grabs you,
as the train at the crossing
when the arms go up.
When that cicada curtain comes down again
like the old shroud,
you will look down at your hands and ask,
Where are those precious things I held for so long?
This thing will make you
mix your metaphors and lose the train.
I’m telling you
it fucked me up.
C.B. Crenshaw 