11:55 pm

now I will write a poem
I will write no thought
for they lie like silk
smooth and slick with solidity
and its thirst
(pretty pearls fall and fall and fall) perhaps
poetry is hand
the ink that writes it
something of the muscle
subtly moving
to move the words
then this one will be white
for in the light that it forms
is white and sharp

thoughtless banter…

with paper and secret—
we never become so still,
all rehearsals halted
to see the show:

perhaps this one will be fear
perhaps blanket blue
perhaps time
that slips into bed and sleeps
perhaps this will be snore
(I do not snore, I breathe only,
but this time does)