just looked outside
to see what’s going on
whatever it
is thursday
precious, beautiful
whatever as ever
and i can’t
pry my hand
off the windowsill
i’m driving the future
it’s a test
with the end in question
i don’t want to see death
imprinted upon what should
seem ordinary
ordinarily, the air
bites more
than yesterday
and the day before
which seemed preferable
until it came
when summer becomes tired
and long, my routine
is to welcome any new sensation
angel olsen’s new album
glistens and darkens throughout
the living room, cutting in half
the infiltrating cold
this record less shiny
than her previous
includes more of a dull
swelling, it’s cohen-y
both broody and croony
like when he says
it’s come to this
yes its come to this
and wasn’t it
a long
way down
i’m wondering
if we’ve arrived
but then i’m wondering
about arrival
years ago
a conversation
with men about beauty
a thing was said like
“the word beautiful
is too often
thrown around
so much that
it loses meaning”
at the time i thought yes
true beauty is rare (vomit)
the word becomes dull
it will thud all over
my poems i must
use less revealing
descriptors more folded
with complexity (vomit)
i would never speed past
the world
but to pedal back
i love to have fun
i love love the quiet
i do my best and i work work work
we had friends over
to the apartment last night
to sit on a blanket
on the living room floor
and eat soup
and today,
sunlight
came through the window
and said look at her face
this curl by her ear
it is so beautiful
that I cried
i’m done now
complicating and sprinkling
intellect so stop licking for it
beauty police
i don’t live
to close my eyes
but I love to do it
although I see
attractive shapes
in the darkness
i don’t wish
to lose poetry
for the sake of shadow
i live
with a small knife
tucked into the front pocket
of my baggu
i don’t like that it’s there
or when it’s not there
if i try to imagine
drawing it
i myself am a stick figure
with no muscles
and tiny hands
so i put my dream away
right there
for if i ever need
a sharp thing
