Styrofoam Cup with a Hole in Its Side

so, just to mollify

for a moment

just to pour myself

from one broken


into this poem

without wetting

the page too much

to delight in how lonely

I am

to brush my hands

over the surface

of a dead pile of leaves

like a cold distended


to convert the words

of my gut

into a potted plant

sustained by the sun

framed in a small bedroom window

that a grandmother could


walking down a

cold street in Manhattan

if she wanted to

if only

for a moment

if she needed to look up


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