I wrote you a poem, it looked
a lot like this until I turned
the radio off. Shut the past up. As if
I willed them into appearing just as a reminder. This
palpable
rebeginning. This ending that won't shut up.
Come to think of it that's not such a bad idea. An ending
that looks a lot like this until
I'm the same size as everyone else. Until I turn the radio
off.
Until the past diminishes. Put it all down.
I gloss over this, which I would give to you: extenuated.
Of course the breath is amplified, a palpable disgrace,
there's
a word for that you know. Boring landscape, you're supposed
to care
about
several
severed
instances
(I was supposed to call)
Don't take me there, I don't want to "watch"
"love" or "crime." As if I willed them
into appearing: skin
is boring.
The ending terrifies me. I gloss over this.
Someone meant it though, this palpable newness and I'm tired
of being in charge:
extenuated.
Wait for it—
