Sometimes I try to make poetry but mostly I try to earn a living. There's something still living in every urn, I am sure of it. The ash moves around inside the vase like the magnetic filings that make the moustache of Wooly Willy. Maybe a new face counts as reincarnation. The wand says, "I'll be your ostrich, if you'll be my swan." In this life, what did I do wrong? I think my heart is a magnet too. It attracts anything that attracts joy like the summer grasses the swans track through. OMG, how in love I am with joy and with yours—how I know that adding to it would only take it further off course, off its precarious center, so for once, I won't touch it. I will stand wand-length away—let it glide stupidly on its weightless line, without me.
I’m a witch who lost all her powers, then
in place of my powers, I got the coiled beauty
of seashells and sleeping infants. The coiled
beauty of eardrums, and the sound wave
of bells. The bells! This is the country of clouds.
The molten body, the Floridian pinks,
and centuries of sand dollars examining
the arcing waves. New territory
of interiority and I’m in the middle of this.
White like a negative belt.
I am an airless thing. When I get high, I get low.
But I’m real and airless and love you.