[ w/ bright green large format dot grid & black ink ]
the poem (this is not a poem) might reserve the motel room, where sleep
is just a detail, sleep is for sleep’s self. it’s almost an oxymoron, you know,
to be consoled. time hypes you up into the high reaches of your whatever
where you believe in self as singularity, self as genes plus proximity, self
meticulously packed pre-bloom in the imagination. does the physical spark
the ethereal? does the u-haul bruise bloom better? even bruises have a soul.
even the soul and its superglue. how delayed is your reaction? how written
are your hands? hey, i’m defining the soul here, standing in this driveway,
filling out another report, watch out.
//
watch me, filling in another room
at the top of another driveway. cross my heart and hope to never ship all
these books another grumble grumble miles. the tidy woman’s walls each
one another shade of navy never called navy, rows of temperature-controlled
gridwork and hey some really neat acres but just once wildness, please, thank
gawd the treehouse sways, little corner of rotting forest floor under, greater
canopy of cover on the verge of calling it over, there’s some agreement there
to hold, there’s some reason the dog multiplies crocodiles by the bedroom
door, there’s always trying to keep your company in the small of my pocket