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.
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