[Untitled]

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[Untitled]


I’m almost from here, but not 

quite. And what I mean by that 

lives always one street over 


from what I write. I used to lie

awake and ache to know

just how it would be to be 


the guy the girl I want wants, 

how he must feel full and finished, 

like the meaty bite of wood-


smoke I still imagine poetry

tastes like. The world is a window 

and we've called ourselves over


to see for ourselves, always arriving

on the tail end of the fawn

ducking the thicket, the porpoise


pod going dark to leave us

gesturing in the general 

direction of absence. Plenty


of strangeness here, but what's not

odd is how we wake in the night

with foot cramps: Sinking, 


toes forever flex for the firm of final

things in the breath-taking 

suck and swirl of all this almost.


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