pocketsful

pocketsful

typing as though on a hammond, the
sparkedplug joints follow along, floating with
each click and stickier key. I find there’s no time
to speak of unfinished sentences, with the way
you move me, so much like water. bringing the noise
that we whisper, of quick hope undiminished. tell me
no stories of souls and smithys, and let’s find instead
a smiley-face balloon, all hot air and latex,
my misspent youth. can we call this working, dear,
and let it go? it is, in fact, a sharpie in my pocket
and i’m happy to see you: both things are true —
I needed both to write this poem.

 

(2011?)