1



My heart’s aflutter!



I am standing in the bath tub



crying. Mother, mother



who am I? If he



will just come back once



and kiss me on the face



his coarse hair brush



my temple, it’s throbbing!







then I can put on my clothes



I guess, and walk the streets.







2



I love you. I love you,



but I’m turning to my verses



and my heart is closing



like a fist.







Words! be



sick as I am sick, swoon,



roll back your eyes, a pool,







and I’ll stare down



at my wounded beauty



which at best is only a talent



for poetry.







Cannot please, cannot charm or win



what a poet!



and the clear water is thick







with bloody blows on its head.



I embrace a cloud,



but when I soared



it rained.







3



That’s funny! there’s blood on my chest



oh yes, I’ve been carrying bricks



what a funny place to rupture!



and now it is raining on the ailanthus



as I step out onto the window ledge



the tracks below me are smoky and



glistening with a passion for running



I leap into the leaves, green like the sea







4



Now I am quietly waiting for



the catastrophe of my personality



to seem beautiful again,



and interesting, and modern.







The country is grey and



brown and white in trees,



snows and skies of laughter



always diminishing, less funny



not just darker, not just grey.







It may be the coldest day of



the year, what does he think of



that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,



perhaps I am myself again.





