(some things, we write for ourselves.)



sometimes

i wish
you'd keep your poems away,
locked in a drawer
or your memory--
keyless
and
impenetrable,
beyond the taint
of my wandering eyes

because

i have a
self-serving tendency
to put myself
in each line i read,
making a place
for me
in a time
i never was

and

it makes me feel
so selfish,
this egostroke of mine--
corrupting and corroding
sentiments
elsewhere inspired
and carved out
below
another's name

though

i would gladly
bind this mind
to pre(sent)-set confines
of time
and space
and remembrance
my heart insists
otherwise
other ways
of placing me
between you and
everyone else

so

i pour over
textfont photos
scanning your free verse
for my face
a thumbprint impression
in impressionistic
language
hidden by some
sleepy sunday
i forgot to decipher

but

i am pinned beneath
a dualconflict
so melodramatically
juxtaposed
in thunderous reason
clashing:
though i search
for familiar eyes
dotted in your own
i fail
to convince myself
i'm worthy
of the words





"foolish" is the name
i most often give myself.