poetry is unfeeling
and gallons and gallons of energy
all wrapped up in a tiny breath
that scandalizes universes
and dreams a poet's root to be truth.
i know not anyone else's unhurried
breath; its extension to myself is not
warranted; i believe but do not know
humanity; i cleanse the palette of my
face; guaranteed by morning to be free from
grief; one dangling chord of memory ropes
dreams; and dancers unite in torturous
positions; some little track unfolds
curses; i am not squared to fit
in a botched dream sequence, i run straight through
into a stolen version of you.