I’m sorry I brought another poet home
In the poem, in which
The cat leapt off the bed,
The moon parked outside
To watch through the window,
In which the cat was your cat,
The bed your former bed,
The moon the moon, which knows
Your body of work through participation
And your body through observation,
The bed your former bed,
The moon the moon, which knows
Your body of work through participation
And your body through observation,
It’s just that that evening, with the rain falling fast outside the
barn,
And inside, in the spotlight’s golden cone, dust falling slowly,
All the chairs touching shoulders,
And the stuttering poet reading poems about his stutter,
His s’s centuries of seven-year cicada cycles, his ample and and’s,
barn,
And inside, in the spotlight’s golden cone, dust falling slowly,
All the chairs touching shoulders,
And the stuttering poet reading poems about his stutter,
His s’s centuries of seven-year cicada cycles, his ample and and’s,
I couldn’t help but imagine
Getting him alone and prostrate
And asking if it was real,
And if it helped him sell that book,
Questions too absurd and violent to ask out loud.
Getting him alone and prostrate
And asking if it was real,
And if it helped him sell that book,
Questions too absurd and violent to ask out loud.
Still, I wanted to show you just how I can be.
Because you asked me to tell you a secret.
Because this morning when I rolled
The plates stacked in their cart to breakfast,
They couldn’t stop trembling.
Because you asked me to tell you a secret.
Because this morning when I rolled
The plates stacked in their cart to breakfast,
They couldn’t stop trembling.
Read on . . .