Sitting cold by the broken window
I type, I watch, I throw myself through the afternoon.
My companion is a cat, not mine
Seeking warmth, like me; waiting for day to end, like me.
I stopped counting a long time ago.
That's a lie, but which part? The "I"? the "stopped"? the "counting"?
A long time ago I was finished.
Now I am anything but. Broken apart and wild.
I betray this form. I use it wrong.
Faraway women use it for secrets in hiding.
I am a strange poet anyway.
My imagination runs down all the wrong-way streets.
I still manage to hoard things to lose
I hit on a truth sometimes, tearing through the language.