I know that you are tired of hearing me talk. And you say, I am tired of hearing you talk. I nod and say, the table leans a little. But that’s it.
Poems should lean a little. And cats should cry at the door to come in. Saturn whistles like a dump truck. A poet puts up graffiti in a city less tangible than the threadbare guts of being alive . Our fingers fidget like a can opener in a cloud.
Please don’t take this poem seriously, almost every letter is out of place, it’s a miracle it’s legible, and vastly improbable any of it is true.
Anyway, it’s a love poem
At night, there is a man whistling for his dog. Not even the crickets reply. Which is terrifying.
I open the window and look out. I too don’t hear the man.
naïve haircuts 
Ah! How did I miss this? There’s an intensity here that I love. And it doesn’t lessen even after you tell us not to take the poem seriously, making the ending that much more powerful. Well done.
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Thank you. I’ve been trying to take my writing in a new direction. So I’m glad you liked it.
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This is incredible. Twists and turns wonderfully.
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Thank you!!!
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