The intensity of calm. The brevity
of long summer days. Free radical
wellness. She can’t justify using
the word oxymoron in a poem.
She can’t justify
any poem she’s written—
left, full, or ragged
right. She’s more dash,
less of a mark. More ruin, less
shame. More hypo, less hyper.
She’s a hand stretching to strangle
a throat into an interesting effect.
A song spoken first. A lullaby iuxta.
Less horizontal, she’s more
a tree not yet ready to crash.