I’m waiting for the words        to catch up to my heart    which is 
elliptical at the moment            there’s an apology 

even I am expecting to bore out of my throat

                                                                         but what for            what for 

I am continuing to write in a font        that displeasures me 
            everything shifts so rapidly

my body           the environment           my body            the environment

why not return to something as aggressively unspectacular as arial

a font for all my first thoughts             today I typed the words
                                     “someday, again”

and deleted and retyped                                   deleted and retyped

inside of the collapse                I am still holding on to narrative
            this is not sentiment                 it is how I keep my family together
when I breathe in deep enough I feel it            all the old anger 
waiting to become newer anger            not having the words 

can feel like not having something to hit          I think I wrote that in another poem 
            before

what is the equation that solves everything       ideas are commodity 
            even the idea that ideas are commodity            I don’t even know 

what I have to sell        I’ve spent my entire life living on a fault line
            I know all that’s been made is inherently broken.
This is not me being dour        this is me writing a note
that says I miss you                              I meant that the other way

but the one you were thinking works, too

If for a day joy masters me,
Think not my wounds are healed;
Far deeper than the scars you see,
I keep the roots concealed.

They shall bear blossoms with the fall;
I have their word for this,
Who tend my roots with rains of gall,
And suns of prejudice.