I’ve folded his poem into an imperfect
square aka
a rectangle to read later not sure when
maybe on the plane
before it takes off maybe tonight in the hotel
before I turn off the light maybe never but

I know I won’t be able to resist
reading another poem
entitled Saudade and hope to write a memorable one
of those myself some day
for now I settle for titles like strays chrome
before browsing mutate mule etiquette
fit for drinking this is becoming
a nonlinear prose poem except

I am trying to pay attention
to line breaks
and may succeed
impeach you would be another example
and of course you can never write too many
poems called daffodil or

and especially the take no heroes hotel my personal favorite
wish it could be the title
of a book of poems not just one floating
on the polished surface
of a Midwestern lake
who decided it was cool to hang
framed family photos on the stair case wall
they call that wetting the whistle with water
this time I wouldn’t gum up his works I wouldn’t

the date October 12
stares back at me again
time to declare no more bones
on display take away this Columbus Day
we are all thieves

A blue ink stain
beneath the nail of the middle

finger is residue
from another conversation

he had
with himself. Or some undressed

rehearsal he wrote
his way out of. A hidden trap

door in the wood floor
a woman used once

to escape his
implacable hunger. Today

it’s purple and he’s careful
to keep the tip on point. His lefty
slur asks:

Do you move in a circle, or swim
in your own lane
when you breathe bilaterally?