I don’t mind a gimmick
in a poem the words play
a circuit completes
this breach of the fourth wall
We amount to lists: images
waiting for the rushing back
cling to momentum and never catch up
feel most human as we fail
Phone cupped to sternum
each mid
night missive
trickles into sleep’s well
where I am picking through
our early nests what little doves
Every way of not saying, I—
In my favorite scene, Molly Grue
screams at The Last Unicorn in the world
in that hoarse, warbling voice she has, the voice of a woman who has—
why did you not come to me sooner
why do you come to me
now when I am this
I’ve decided against the last line: poem finished when I loved you
it took too long and
I’ve been too sad for weeks
and like every other time, I wonder
how I will ever pull myself out and
like every other time, I cannot
write and think, Lord, how,
then,
do I save myself but then I write I punish every man I ever
in a madness I write love they should
have found me sooner
