this is not a poem.
this is not a senten--

sometimes i ponder like
a young girl swathed in grey film,
earnest eyes bent to world's phrase.

sometimes i write like
a peering boy, letters of letters
and paper cut fingers
waiting to cause her lips to
crease while she waits at her locker

once i dreamed i was
suffocating in my cherry wood coffin,
preacher's voice scribbling
psalms on to his note cards,
even though my Bible died
by hiccoughing moths.

i will imagine my eyes
tracing the back of midnight afternoon,
a word scrawled, fractions of
letters gathering like sickened ants
anticipating pools of honey.

this is not a poem,
i told myself

this was not a poem,
and will never be;

unless everything is
a poem.