Tuesday, February 25, 2020


For a few hours in the early morning
I can choose
to use a language which is private
to speak of
only what is optional.

I might just be softly lobbing dreams
into tautological algorithm
machines; I may discover—a poem
is either a song, or it isn't
much of a poem at all,

but there is no dissent
from the audience—the remnants
of eggs and coffee black
or the headless sardines
not yet extracted from the can.

And I know how all that
might come off
out there, but
I don't have to care all the time
about what is optimal; I say

let the midday break
as my validation; may the sky
brighten a little, as I
hurry off, as if
I have just gotten away with something.