I haven't written in a while
because I don't want to talk
about anything
I've been unable to stop
thinking about: the knotted thread
of bad capillaries on my retinae,
money, or that my morning was ruined
by the unusual tightness
of jeans around my thighs,
like the obligations
of having a body
so ill-fitting, oppressively snug
around an obstinate will.
And while I don't want
to be distracted
from this Duchamp thing
I've been working on— I am
itched out of reverie
over and over again
by this feeling I don't deserve
my raptures anymore.
So I'm sorry. I don't want to
bring you down. It's unfair
to have to hear about needles
and envelopes and flies
when you might just have been
enjoying an iced tea outside
and when I would prefer to tell you,
really,
there's a family of pheasant living
in the massive cottonwood
we call the Tree of Life.
The male's red, green, gold plumage
makes him look
like a Christmas present
I would want to give you.
So except “I hope you're well,”
that's all.
