Nate Pritts
B-I-N-G-O
Skip that sad bit about the self
as put upon, your inner puppy dog
gazing out the window at the breeze,
wanting only love, a home &
somebody to call it by name. Save all that
for someone who'll say it's tragic
& feel oh-so-bad. After all, what's in a name?
Something makes us feel like we're
slipping even when we're held
tight. You? You whine the trite fantastic;
all your lorn is fore, your I's
weepy & red.
RILKE & KEATS
This poem is for the girl who reads Rilke—
how heartbreaking & lovely & sad!
Alone, so far from me that she might not even exist,
might not really be reading Rilke.
& Keats! Nothing is more tragic
& empty & warm & hopeful than a girl
reading Rilke & Keats (or maybe not reading them,
having already read them) long into the lonely night
without me. Her hair falls, silent as stars,
across the pillow, Rilke & Keats both
in her drowsy mind, as my heart unfolds
one thousand times.