And we will richly go past our sadnesses that come in multiples

when least expected. We will have absorbed them into and beyond skin.

It will appear some new norm in which we partly recognize ourselves,

but this will be our new selves against the grain of selfhood as defined

by us and by our circle, our sphere, our likely or unlikely peer

group, chattel some would call them, the adherents, the unwitting fan club

convened to make us feel something amid life we did not bargain for.

All right, it's almost midnight in the body and the soul conjoined as

one unalterable nubile still point hypothesized the same one

capsized though grand, though granular, in fact, as much as a lone bluebird,

framed in the picture window I don't care about that still lingers there

despite my claim of independence, a sotto freestyle non-swimming

way of being, as if I could legitimately constrict by way

of veining veins and exploding lanes that I was taught to stay within.

A young man who looked softly plump,

vulnerable, and sweet seeming beneath

a lightly witty demeanor. Several women

poets were drawn to what sounded like

innocence. They gushed over his poems,

especially one about a wounded animal

in a field. He believed the women too hard,

told himself in a rush of conceit

his work was the apex of poetry.

When perhaps all the women meant was,

"Keep at it, it's worth your while.

You're on a roll." But he was starved for kudos.

He needed them too much. And the women

reflexively spoke good words they had heard

in their youth. In their eyes, he felt young,

a small child needing to be fed.

I did not write this poem. It connoted where I was

stuck on denotation. I minced syllables

that would be words. I let fly a vibrato

where one un-slanted tone would be. I breathed

into the lane before the lane change that hailed me

like a cab in a micro-town of olives too hard

to be consumed like the distant would-be lover

who looks best from far away; the only way you fare

is at the service of someone who needs something

not to do with you. I did not decide to write this poem.

"I need more time," you said, the beginning of the end.

I don't believe in endpoints, only lines beyond line segments,

half learned in geometry class from the teacher who hailed

from Kankakee and knew not much of anything human.

You loved the canary that pronounced the unpronounceable.

You said, "He likes you." I did not

understand what I might say back to the bird.

I failed to refuse, just stood there. Listening to speech

of a kind, percussive in spurts. I did not speak back,

I watched the canary dart from lamp to cushion to shoulder.

Mine. I mined the room for silence. You told both of us

you felt especially loved today: your two friends

together with you in the room.

I need sun

on my shadow,

the shadow within

I cannot quash.

I would rather

rain just slither

in and rinse

the earth,

then dry again.

The air, not warm

enough. Rain

chills my skin,

my inner

reverie becomes

as quiet as

my fear. All year

I hope for

this unnatural

light shining

let's pretend.