All exits are emergency
escapes from moments
that have died.
Write tiny epitaphs

for each and be accused
of living in the past. Without
them there would be
no future. The time has come

to forgive
our younger selves.

I Feel Therefore I Am

More than a freshly cut
bundle, more than a bonfire
burning in a field
across the highway, I am

all emotion: no bones,
tendons, skin left.
Everything touches
the raw side—ecstatic

tears, smiles
through grief. I can’t
tell the difference
between my own

laughter, sobs,
orgasms. It’s all


it’s all that’s left,
it’s all I’ve ever been.


The alarms are as false
as the ladders and boots are

true to form. She prepares
to leave, doesn’t want sleep

disruption on this last night
before an angel appears—some people

go to church—she goes
straight to the source.


Madness of the mud
but she doesn’t
sculpt. Passion for digging
into soil rich
in nutrients
for thought, but
she doesn’t garden.
One more contradiction—
and her obsession will be complete.