Chris Forhan Renunciation

Bundling my few things in a gum wrapper, strapping it
to a snail's back—I renounce that: the armor
of smallness, a pinched humility, a life as safe

as someone else's dreams. Calamity will come,
but it's not all sad sediment sinking in my blood
in the meantime, it's not just muck to give up on.

I renounce the creaky kneeler and funereal murmur
of the cramped confessional, the daily preparing
for death by being dead already. What i don't know

will hurt me. Until then, some predicaments are solved
by a new shirt. Until then, that's my pie. I reject
the snow globe, its caught water steadily

surrendering itself to the air. I will stay here.
I will not act doubtful of desire and call myself shy.
I will not be embarrassed by my own life.

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