I know it's not
relevant—let alone decent
to talk about
in public. So
instead, for the millionth
time, before I go out
I purge this grim fetish,
excoriating my discursive
soul for the
urge in the process;
I create a few lines, then
mutely discharge
into the pure offwhite
void of each
column
on the page
some of my favorite
words:
hyacinth,
sugarcane,
coffee,
and birds.
