buring down

All the back roads made us thirsty,
we wished for a tiny parade to keep us

plodding along, the sand felt like Jupiter
between our hair, the wind an arctic ice

running straight through the release of
whatever we had to give.

It’s so easy to speak of the heart as a living being;
it’s so easy to ignore how hard

it gets with little despairs: the empty
cup, which is an oft-lived despair

and rather silly; the silliness in
realizing how trivial most despair

can be; the soberness of missing
your train and the ignorance of minutes

you just bought your morning.

This is turning into another laundry
list of ridiculous things a poet might

think are important to discuss, but at least
a poet can be aware of how lines are just

lines burning down each New York scaffold
until a sense of conclusion is reached.

Really, I’m in the dark about most conclusions
in general. I’m a real nail-biter,

I’d like someone to meet me in the city
and gaze up and make something of a day.