There is a notebook that is my

World and also just a notebook.


The page

Collapses when I turn it;

A ripple. From the pulp

It used to be, its wispy,

Papery appeal, to the poetry

And pain it beckons to hold.


Playing goddess,

I set them into motion; the

Page and its surrounding

Cotton dreams. Watch them

Lock into a waltz— the iron and

Its smell. One, two, three.


My hand is in my pocket,

The fingers curled in.

I am terrified

Of all the meaning I can

Touch into things.


All this power should never have

Been thrust into my arms. God,

I cannot turn the page, I’d

Melt the world down every time.

Pull the stars into these lines;

Read between and above and

Strange and nonexistent.


I read nonexistent. I read

History in words, read the ink and

its mind, clutched in each other’s

Arms. One, two, three.


Stop me, if you can. I beg.

Do tell me how the

Hundredth kiss means no more

Than the ninety-ninth, how

Your quickening heartbeat has

Nothing to do with mine.

All this would be much

Simpler that way.

Till then, I dance.

Dream, lie, be.