THIS POEM MEANS NOTHING
I.
There's nothing to it anymore.
When I was younger, I would
mush colored clay together in the garden.
I knew it would be
impossible to separate. I mixed it
murky and kept it,
used over and over again.
I just believed in the making.
II.
In that same garden, tortured by
that same youth, I saw
the fireflies.
Always as my parents visited
home between shifts.
An infestation.
Who can say what light means to us?
My tiny wrists straining against the weight of a jar,
trying to keep one. We were thousands,
trapped in the thick, sweet
amber of the sky.
I didn't even need the stars.
III.
At sunset I get drunk on thoughts that aren't mine.
My friends do the same. We are
reckless in high places. Everything
dissolves on our tongues
garden, concept, goodness.
Blurring lines so we can redraw them,
conquer in our own names. Our nation
is wine-dark. Our nation
sleeps with impermanence. Our nation
dissolves
us on its tongue.
IV.
I don't believe in words. I can't
keep them.
TYPO
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