"presorted" poems
Zero is not an absolute.
I have seen worlds open inside her circular form--
the expansion and contraction of edges, curved
longings curbed: suppressed then exposed--
everything we've wished for in our beds.
Zero has infinite chance--
ringed and rung out-- sung and restrung
her points connected positive and negative glued and preserved
presorted for our convenience.
There is nothing convenient in the sputter of our silences
we spit and bite, tender nothing
solicitous starvation.
Our sympathetic matter of course.
Zero is not nothing.
She's bigger than comprehension--
compensation
and competition
Zero teaches us:
What alone could be
If we alone, weren't one.
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 6:03 PM UTC
Only later I could
play without acting
play the leading role
in my life, my destiny
presorted or coincidental
bad luck on the inside
of my desirable body
loved
without lasting interest
in me, my presence
my desirous spirit
that lay awake
from them, their dreams
which I could not follow
which spurned me
afraid
of the effort that it takes
to change and
not to continue to press
the bruises
Jan 26, 2022
Jan 26, 2022 at 2:56 AM UTC