october seventh

this poem started in a forest. i was a constant, never sleeping

on the couch, never cornered

into the passenger seat of your car

oceans away from your birthmark

(the things i notice)

i'd rather be a question. i'd rather

hide from you with your own hands (i've

not been beautiful for long)

3. feel better

in those two words, i would have liked to imply

"you are your own patient! you are your own triangle!

thank you for quiet hands! thank you for couches

+ folding chairs!"

i guess that could be the appeal

reading frank o'hara

is like being out of breath

while going down stairs

i'll have you know:

all those photographs

red and blown up

they mean nothing to me