After standing alone
outside of it all
since before immemorial,
time
has grown stubborn,
furious, cold.
But once in a while,
time is kind—when it's late,
and it's drowsy
and slow, it says
things like
"Tag. You're it." And
"Anyone
could have written this."
And
"direction is effective
but ultimately
unnecessary."
*
What have I got to lose?
Among the bumps
and depressions
of a black and blue
keyboard,
the only things moving
were some shadows
and their fingers.
*
In the terrible dreams
that I've been having
lately,
words rise unbidden
like bodies
from the harbor
and speak themselves.
It's like—everything that made me
not good enough
comes screaming at me
from everywhere offscreen
at once.
Through the racket,
the question I still want
to ask you more than anything
isn't
whether or not
you still love me,
but whether or not
you believe
that you do.