Is there anywhere for the universe to pull over? To park, to fall in love? A well-kept bike, a stack of poems in disarray. What if these poems really did mean something? How terrifying. The menu of poets Is full of branches. The books on the fridge. I'll get to them soon. After a walk and a few more months of procrastinating. I’ll write poems too. Small ones, by an open window. The moon like a dog licking a plate. Mirrors reflect, yes, but they Don’t know left from right. A group of dusk is called a vanish. The wild arteries of stars Do they feel it too? The quiet celebrity of being alone.
(revised from an earlier post)