Bowie knows you’re sad today. Bowie is the color
and texture of the sad you are today. Bowie watched
you wake at 5 a.m.—how thin your body, notched
your spine, and heavy your movements. Bowie is
the char of black coffee on your tongue, the cold
jade rolling across your cheekbones. It feels like
meeting the sea’s face with your own. Bowie knows
how you resent what you love, how it ruins and degrades
you. He says the streets outside go in all directions,
and you can choose anything, change your life at will.
It’s not the courage of conviction, which is arrogance,
but the courage of consciousness, allowing change.
You must amble and stutter toward yourself now.
Bowie understands how painful all this, the brain
so tender against the morning slanting through the
many windows. It feels like glass should do more
than this until you remember glass does everything.
It does the impossible: it keeps the entire world out
and lets it in at the same time. You must be like glass.