Picnicked near the Don’t Insult The Witch sign. Broke the stove again. You learn a thing in one place and write it down in another. Wanting to get out into the world. Tight shoe or pregnancy. Here you are humming around the apartment and refilling various glass jars. When they enter the poem. Blurry & on the horizon. Who left these jackets by the stairwell. In the morning made of traffic and voices you sleep through hours of sunlight. Maybe this is a kind of diffuse epistolary novel. Smudge of paint on the keyboard. On deadline as a permanent state. On the wrong side of Fortuna’s wheel & brimming with dailiness. Dearest liberty having taken you. Everyone adjusting their scarves in the new season. I liked the openly boring ones best. How could you make a poem into a tiny room. Predictors included writing or thinking. The carbon monoxide monitor beeps. How the coffee seemed to move around inside you reshaping your body in tiny ways. Almost too gentle to count as an allusion. Lingered on. How can I tell you what the afternoon has done. Holding his daughter’s hand and looking into his phone. Still thinking about the problem of audience. Enthusiasm of a new friendship three drinks into the end-of-summer party. The word social indicates a certain kind of bar. To be at a certain place in life. What labor might mean to a given person. What justice might look like at fifteen or twenty or thirty or forty. How many times can I pull this one off.
M C Hyland
1 February 2016