Not a Photo or a Poem
Most of what I’ve written so far for This Body of Work has been poetry.
I was trying to think of a poem for today, but I realized I didn’t have a photo.
I didn’t have a poem either. It’s late. My brain is full of stars, exploding.
So this is an essay about essaying. Or a poem about poems. Or maybe it’s a story of nothing, the kind of absence that comes when things are good enough to let the mind do nothing. To rest. Jellyfish movement. Bird soar. Dead man’s float.
Isn’t it amazing how we sleep next to someone else? The vulnerability in that.
I think of it every time I close my eyes. If you touched me in the dark, I wouldn’t wake up like an assassin, ready for you. No. I’d fall open like a cut flower,
petals weeping to the table. I trust you implicitly. But even if I didn’t
I’d still sleep next to you. What does that say about me?
If dark matter is just more planets turning toward their suns,
then poems are just more words turning toward what matters,
the way I roll against you in the night, orbiting the heat of your heart.
Image: Taken with iPhone.
Words written. That’s enough, right?
Time Taken 3 minutes.
Brain on pensivity.