Confident folk write poems
about beavers and catalpa pods.
I want to notice the light. Gasping
for ecstasy of me out-of-it, people
will catch up with me only after I
am charisma drowned. Thin may
be worth it just for the outlandish
ensembles I could get away with.
Color can raise the dead. This is
my chunky bracelet, but it is a media
freak with no sense of history or
curiosity. My fibers cannot sit in
judgement. Another way out of it
is exaggeration, which is making
me cry giant houndstooths. More
me, hurly burly big. Still, machine-
made junk gnaws curiosity. You
can’t have everything. Something
has to give. Sometimes it is you.