it appears to me that we’ve done this before:
the walking rivers, the stone-stacking, the bone finding.
I must say I’m in love with your weather,
you tiny planet, my lose, my hose,
when I am raining, when I am walking
around at night with a child in my arms
I call it insomnia with a crack of dawn
in my eye. the incessant
hope of cracks—you know.
down by my hoarse voice, I’ve felt trouble.
when I am drowning, which happens often,
I tend to wet the bed with several cups of water.
I wet my grave too, and then I let go of the surface
like I let go of myself—like I
wrap my wrists in cellophane and crash
on the couch for my family to see.
they know I’m brown, obtuse and
hungry: in other words, I’m an addict
without nihilism. yes. I kill myself
slowly and without a drop of philosophy.