THE  27Th  EDITIOn

               I exorcize myself through sweat—

dancing until I’m out of breath

 

                                                                 if I was sober I wouldn’t bother finding myself

                              at 3:00 A.M. the park paths wind and dip with my gait

 

               my breath askew—it hurt at first to let the cold air into my lungs

                                                       I’ve never felt warmer than at that inhale

 

                               as I try not to piss myself and meander my eyes

                up through the bristling shapes of the pines above

 

the lights off the river like mercurial mirrors

 

                                              I’ve known people who could blow my heart like glass

                                                        prism my cracks and shatter me with a touch

 

                                 I play a game where I drag my feet on the pavement

               see how worn I can make the treads of my shoes— 

 

                                                     how much weight I can put on one foot and still move it

 

                                  I’ve known people who could weld my skeleton like rebar

                                               and pour my flesh like concrete—dry it with their breath

 

                                                             if I was sober I wouldn’t dance and we’d stand still

                                                                            and I’d be sculpture

 

                                                I’ve never felt warmer than the wind on my wet skin

 

          I’ve known people who could drain my blood like reservoir

                        make their drought mine—where I can’t replenish my sweat

 

                                                   I dance like a gaggle and I drag cigarettes in spite

                                                                  I try not to piss myself

 

                                                   I smear like a painting at 3:00 A.M.—the painter’s hand unsteady

                                                                  It’s early May and for the time being I’m glistening

                                                                            beautiful and free