trim. we turn poets into objects by setting them aside
through adulation, even in smaller groups where a poet
is studied, thus, making her an object, remote and removed.
trimmed

wo rds li
ne
the paper from that book i bought
i cross out and draw on
what i already know
what i'll learn from being with you

Joan Mitchell

thin lines thick with yellow

the finch flitter

she flattens

attacking her friends

and her therapist points past

turpentine cans, cigarettes, candy bars

lace her veins crammed with wine

she enjoys men and dogs

her own way. one must not

approach even when invited

she'll curse your truth

one becomes her slug

her paint squiggles around

between her teeth

bright salvation tints her garden

flies fluid

equality

equal signs
plus when questioned
+ = ?

this sums it up
the sum of all circles
equals the sum of circles
circling the outer stratosphere
one zero in a complex universe full
of other circles that sum it up in and out

repetition

before the moon turned that corner on main street
hiding behind the gas station neon sign like a lollipop
on a paper stick the sign flashes on and off over and over
it flashes through my bedroom window. i don't notice this
until today and that happened so long ago i almost forgot
to lift the shade

finished manuscript

because i made copies,
the poetry manuscript,
sits waiting to be put into
some kind of order

because it is almost done
and there are places
it must be sent t

because in sending her out into
the world, i'm feeling lonely and lost.