This poem is for your eyes only,
some small apology for the lonely
ways I’ve smudged your pages.
This poem is the tired-of-everything
matra of the ages, of our darkest hour
-glass cages and the ways we’ve celebrated
all the wrong songs. It’s how I hope
to heal, to steal the sun and mold
the moon to make ourselves a light
-ning swoon, a place to firefly our
wishes loose. These quiet clackings
are the wracked-sobs of my soul, the
only ways I’ll breathe myself whole
and know the world’s a stage, a stone,
a scrim; another’s softly waiting.
In November, we poem. And poem and poem.