I wrote on him wall. ‘off to the races.’
a chicken’s dream on sunday
talking horse play on the porch
I didn’t know what to do when I did.
but it happened, and moved on
anyway,good poetry came out of this night
all the good poems fluttering around to be grabbed
it was so easy to do what we did
and we weren’t doing a thing wrong
nor wronging anyone in the whole world
even just to have done that, to not wrong for even a second
can we ever in certainty say this without fear of reprove
and is our fear a sign of guilt and shame
or heightened sensitivity to the wrongs we do.
call god a she, say the lords prayer.
go take a piss.
recite as you walk to your tree.
before the poet can write without ego she must examine her ego
bear it explore it and come to terms
terms mean tears most times
in this room of rain walls
this blue room
morphing reptiles have eaten my family.
and replaced them with their duplicates.
who seduce me with love and understanding.
then to what purpose
well I can’t but wait and see
if that I don’t
still won’t be quit of.