slowly, slowly

i am late on The Jog because i've been scrambling around in my poems this morning. always playing, rearranging, finding. poems are strange. sometimes i love them, sometimes i hate them, sometimes they embarrass the hell out of me.

anyway, i have no clue what number draft this is or if this poem is even done, but i thought i'd give it a little breathing room. sometimes the work gets better once i decide to stop hiding it.



daily, daily

for Jared who goes on loving me even though i'm crazy





against a white wall without
portraits, all my hairs
in their proper place.

quiet as a candle
and ink stains on everything- i feign,
burned down to a stump-

i say 'please'.
i try
to keep my hair in place.

a thread
decided to dangle,
tickled

my red rims.
a lost lash
behind the lid.

fingernails in the paint,
hair in the baseboards.
and i've tried so hard to keep things clean.


(pretty girl, pretty girl, you are a strange water.
dark as carbon. your ships gone sour.
your hair is a wreck.)


the grapes fell.
turned to wasps.
i go dry of excuse.



he kissed my hands.
he tucked me in.

meekest.

mildest.

a cup of grass and butter.


he let my hair down.
he took the pins out.