447 Readings


 I’ve roped myself
out of another one.

I’ve left my favorite dress behind.
The way we move from crash to crash

is like springing beasts, and I can’t take
credit for the forward march.

I allow myself this gravity
because I think it makes others

feel welcome. You know, we can’t always
be discussing our latest greatest find.

Down by the old accident there are those
nice people without hope. They can spell

out everything they’re feeling
without the help of poise.

They can see until the river bends.
We like one another when I am

piecing my dress back together.
They feel my pain.

They know what it is like
to keep stitching in the name

of dumb faith. That always
renewing stoppage. That falling

on the top of what’s
next, blocking its boring

vegetable fame.
Nobody thinks they are going

to get anywhere,
just the pure blank doing,

a floating marquee
on the stream.
Posted 09/01/11
This poem originally appeared in the poetry section of The Awl, http://www.theawl.com
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