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.