The faded white book
stands so tall above us as we rest beneath it
that it’s shadow spreads across the ground
while it hides the sun.

We sit crisscrossapplesauce
on the grass
while the Autumn insects
crawl and climb among the blades.
Yeats’ and Dickinson’s words float gently
into the tree branches above.

Poetry is something I will never understand
and something that is just as scary
as the razorblades
and the pills and drugs
that fade in my past.

But poetry is also something
that I find my joy in.

I’ll be more than happy to confide in it.