This all is a script about plotting.
An achingly slow clock. Poetry
makes me want to be outside.

Perhaps what is best is how
words move me to a surface,
but I remain in my Arctic superego.

What I mean is I am thinking
of what people will say
to me, to each other. A plot.

A whole movie inside my head.
I act in it without
knowing what I’m doing.

Reasons to Leave

cooped in a house this depressed era      winter
summer you say I’m really your friend I believe
it now but before in the spring      it was pinwheels

could’ve been poets seeking nothing but tea coffee
chocolates            grand canyon space understating
worlds of difference      your activism accurate

paintings hang over white walls      laughter
your echo screams through town I have a bucket
of these memories splashing out      on the short

walk to your place      I can’t stop feeding    monsters
you laugh at me onscreen      onstage
our common ground is both of us leave as far

as we can go    to stay an other