They are pouring laundry detergent in clouds over nurses and chefs and space shuttles and wedding dresses naming everything Whitehall and White Horse and Whitechapel and White Tower.
is there a torment like the self
is there a secret like anger,
That’s a killer ape, just don’t
expect me to marinate it.
No matter how many times I paint my face with makeup or pile on nickel-plated jewelry, there are some things I’m not initiated into knowing.
And now I’d like to tell you just one hairy secret:
up from the depths
from a stone
whatever’s in it, you have to take all of it / into you before you can let go of it, into your whole / being, your whole being, you know.
A typewriter is fine, another says, it is nothing like a constellation. No, but it is like the lines we’ve drawn between the stars to easier map the sky.
Am I going to die and all I will have are these fucking poems
It doesn’t get more real than this
Said the poet
I shiver / & shine in my thicket / of one.