idiosyncrasy
every grain is a mary oliver
poem if you make such short work of it.
if you ricochet, somehow sillier,
always softer. the wilful amnesia
of this writer makes time metabolic,
going everywhere and nowhere at once.
my epitaph of mayflies who held with
one hand; the ones i’ll recall longer than
they nested, who emptied their thoughts into
my cupped palms as grudges grew muscle and
baby teeth budded in brand new verses.
is there a more delicious death, a more
fittingly foolish end, for a poet,
than being too eager to be wounded?
09.04.2024
#badhabits #confessional #idiosyncrasy #lovepoem #poem #poetry
