don’t know the difference. i have to fight and this is a sorry song, off-beat bird heart talking to herself in the mirror, but really
me and my reflection are walking into it
crashing into it, telling ourselves
there are other ways to spend a day
i will write you love letters and not send
nothing but a flimsy stamp

because addressing is half of it
and the rest, well i don’t know now
do I, but that’s the news today
and there’s nothing else unless you want
to enjoy yourself with something else besides these sorry songs.
oh, yes. i said to myself or someone else. there are other things to write about
really, the manuscript is written and recorded somewhere or i’m doing it another day
and this is not a you poem or a me with you poem or anything i said
because distraction has borders or boundaries? i don’t remember the lovely parts
but move on in my abandon or so i think right now.
three weeks, hello. i’ll get good
at disappearing. those things are never promises
they’re sharp, blade like kisses i’m leaving
with my books
i’m a margin. i’m playing on the line because it’s in or out and i can’t decide.
daarling, boring. seems i’ve written about better things.