i
it's hard to tell the grade, some days,
perhaps my legs are just tired,
or feverity, fevrous,
but not the right way
or i can't feel for my fingers
in blinding,
freezing, burning pain
or i'm not figurative enough
i only race leaves, anyway
or i had nothing to say
no more than a travelogue
quotidian,
perhaps
it was a good one, then
ii
consequidian
unrelaxing sunday
give me the opposite of what i need
and asked
spirals intersect and turbulence result
in years, for you
i comfort
when you make me upset
and i know you don't mean it
but you make it about you
in more than a way
and i'm never sure of myself
and when thinking feels betrayal
a shutdown inevitable
i dissociate by associating
avocate with the season
which should not be prefixed
in the first place, well,
red wine i am trying
to improve my handwriting
my bright yellow pen
with an extra fine nib
iii
repeat
i'm too quiet
and reticent
shy distant unassertive
i'm awkward avoidant
a stupid woman
who most often doesn't talk
or too much,
too much
i write about realisability, ambiguity,
as if that's not simply
an inability to see
or rather to perceive
like i'd be reading ancient greek
and decide that it means
what i want it to mean
i don't know what i want, well,
the isis in summer
make music divine
what's laminar
be less taller, sometimes,
or often, even,
a fountain pen
with a yet finer nib
oh yes
make it impossible
scratch loops right next
to imperceptible
and kinder to myself
like i'm trying
iv
and a friend
who would hold me
who is uncryptic, sometimes,
when playtime is over,
for today, 'til tomorrow,
don't make me interpret,
or explain,
we'd be talking about nine things,
anyway
so maybe i know what i want
and i just need to know when
and have then the courage
to lift the pen from the page
so the words don't deform
for those letters it's not easy
to loop
together