Alone to write or maybe to make a space
for the things that are not allowed.
He says he'll be right up but I'm selfish
There is more than combustion involved.
That is the only promise I can make and mean it.
The night breaks down into barking dog
chaos with the sky on fire and deep cannon
blasts raining over clapping crowds in awe
of what they do not know.
Please tell me you have fireflies
in July and woodsmoke in October
in February. Please tell me the color
of the blanket on the floor and the temperature
of the river that carries your glance
and the sound your steps make on the old wooden bridge.
find a way to say what was never meant to be
She asks me to go to Connecticut in August and I would.
But what if I love it. What if I stay.
And what if I visit Amherst and walk around with coffee
under the summer's late sun visiting
graves and other points of interest?
The poem is not the poem and
the visit is not secure. Yet the words birth the sentences
as the placenta ruptures on the heirloom table
my parents used to have in their dining room
at Gun Lake.
Thinking is not thinking
and I'm done