Thursday, February 22, 2024


There is always something 

in the need you 
feel to write things down—

something unsayable 
in the sounds

your mouth must 
use to say so.

It's something about a raven 
(or a crow, 
more likely)

always pecking 
the peripheral, always 
needling away 

at the corners 
of your temples; 

something about 
your penchant 
for holding your breath 

well past 
the point of discomfort, 
to distress

just to sharpen 
to the point of exhilaration

the pleasure of setting it 
free once again; 

about finding divine-
ly comic inspiration 

traced out by wandering 
motes of dust 

in the window-
stretched light of a 
tapioca sun—the same sun 

that has lulled you 
into happy, ochre 
thoughts of love—

the same sun 
that must burn until 
it swells 

up and 
kills everyone.