Today, I am a poet in America, writing about lovers & dead mothers, about corners & the words
swept into them, they read like:
tortured, corruptible coronas
porous, sizable iotas
passed from hand to mouth
& in teeth; in teeth, they rest
Today, I am a poet in Lecanto, writing about car rides to bars, about new friends & the beers
they buy me, it comes down to:
broke, barren pockets
stupid, bad decisions
made from moment to moment
& gritted—yes, in teeth & forgotten
Today, I am a poet in a bedroom, writing about little brush fires, about music balled into fists &
the knuckles brushed against, they sound so:
bedded to brain pan
nestled from synapse to synapse
& on tongue—against teeth, bitten.
Today, I am a poet in a ribcage, writing about opportunities & failures, about broken ankles &
the lament of hearts overlooked, a moan like:
wind, beating through building
tree, growing through concrete
burrowed from marrow to morning
& stained—yes, on teeth, again, & bleeding.
Today, I was a poet; tomorrow, I might not be.