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.