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.


TYPO 5