This Same Spot

Keep poets out

of the planted beds.

There is something wrong and

it is not just inside the head.

Another confession in which the

guilt remains a secret still.

And that dream with movement

through the physical remains.

Finding a gigantic infant weeping inside

a small box and loneliness and waking-

up screaming on the inside trying to forget

of course and this was just two days ago.

That same day it was an identical situation,

static, paralyzed in that position. Now it will

be known but it won’t be for the better,

and it doesn’t matter if it matters.

Song of Solitude

Driving alone through the

city and your cure is

the Holy Hour

 

This supermoon sings

of solitude but

you are not sad

 

The smoke will seep

through lips and drift

as high as Luna

 

This special moon

it does not speak

but sing

 

Sing along even if you’re wordless

even if you think others

do not share your burdens

 

There lies pleasure

in solitude

and singing

 

This is a song

of not just yourself

but also the moon

 

And as you drive over

and with Walt Whitman

you sound your barbaric yawp