dante has been resurrected to mean the same truths in my living room — the hellish blister
developing on tongue tip worrying me much — a small red spoon — the sound of the screeching
cat in the alleyway i lament i ever fell for as a view made me know its name — ginger
boiled in large paper cups could’ve caused my wound – i always forget to be green
mosquitos buzz as my mother watches me swat — ‘why are you even still awake?’
i say to it — in the morning there are the wash sounds — the swish and smack
sounds — the frailty of the outdoor sinks — the reminder my underwear has soaked
far too long — the thought that the white mold is better than the black — and clap!
mother puts me down on her crimson sofa arm — screams for her not so puppy-pet —
i glance out to a photograph — questioning myself — in high school — it's far too high
up — noting forgetfulness of what walls are made of at that address — peripherally i have found
in The Life of Poetry — moving on from dante, in the next corner it is writ:
A poem is an imaginary work, living in time, indicated in lan-
guage. It is and it expresses; it allows us to express.