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Poems

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.