Art is long

Visiting the mall

Where the artists spelunked

Between cinder blocks and rafters

To make crash pads

Lark junk domestic

Sending party invitations

Like fancy apples in boxes

Individually wrapped

Would I have been impressed

Or felt the need to express

Impression

To receive a framed seashell

Of Rhode Island born

In south of the tower

I can picture the moon

Without seeing it

Purple and orange skies

Have you been outside this morning

Can you tell me the weather 

In a county that doesn’t exist

Memorizing then rewriting

Ancient poems

There’s a symbol 

That means you still mean it

And then the question

You think to ask

Is it a poem? Not

If you lived there

What would you breathe

Would the air taste like dust

Or would the dust taste like air?

Sleeping, shortening strands 

Then felting the yarn back together with spit

Could I perfect even the look?

Even the hair?

Sometimes I don’t even know

What my voice sounds like.

I might need you

To tell me how not to live.

The rest I’ll figure out.