I say to myself: "I'm going to write a poem."
So I situate myself in the proper place to do so.
But then, what to write about?
I look about my room, as if this is supposed to inspire me.
A teacup, a candlestick,
Box of unopened fig Newtons,
Mess of clothes on the floor.
Phone.
Sweatpants.
Boredom.
It turns out, I'm not a poet after all. Either that,
or I'm in the wrong room.

I snuck a cigarette in the back yard
at 10:45 in the morning.
The sun shone bright and shaded the smoke gawdily, so
I smoked it in the shade, behind the fence,
keeping an eye on the sidewalk to make sure the coast was always clear.
The dog was on his leash and he stared at me guiltily.
"Why do you give me that look?" I said,
I petted him affectionately,
that seemed to suffice.
I made coffee in my bedroom, filling the electric kettle
with water from a mason jar.
I wrote two postcards to friends in China while it brewed,
I drank my liquid breakfast,
and stepped in cat *****.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
I screamed at her as she lay docile on my duvet.
She gave me the blankest, the most Idontgiveashit cat look ever.
11:15.

It happens most nights when I'm feeling sort of sad,
but mostly really tired and confused.
I've been thinking too much, about too many things.
And my brain has finally quit.
And all I want to do is cry my eyes out and feel better.
All I want is to be held and to be loved without reason.
I want to lie down in my bed, and feel a body wrapped neatly
around me. I want someone to cry onto,
someone to understand. I want something so cliche, it would be perfect.
I don't want to care about life,
about art, about my future, about myself,
I just want to cry and cry and cry and
lie there with someone and be held and be understood.

I need a vacation.

I need a break from my life.

I need perspective.

I need someone to hold me without asking me what's wrong.

I need to cry until the sun rises.

I need to not think.

I need a break.

I need time.

A dawn is breaking
Over the line of Atlantic expanse
A piano is playing
But only through modern implements
A soft mechanical din is
Heard over it
And children are at once quiet and asleep
As men and women scruffle to find comfort
A small light finds its way across the open Atlantic dawn
And blue takes over black slowly
And delicately
I am restless and racing
The destination must be near

That moment, when you kiss Don
good night and then turn away
to switch off the light on your bedside table,
and the smile is suddenly wiped off your face,
those three seconds when you rest your hand on the switch
and then quickly engulf the room in darkness,

that is your entire life.

Water still hung on the grass,
so I laid myself down in the dirt for a while.
My back against a tree,
upright,
trying to fall asleep.

Sitting in the dirt, up
against a tree,
underneath a sky.
You:
far away from
me.