I’m not sure what to say about all the words of the poets


Sorry I am so odd sometimes. That is I am not very odd at all sometimes. And I am sorry. I go all heavyworded sometimes and I shut up sometimes I think I am being present with attachments I think and then find that no not at all and this is the way of that walk I think and I go heavy and shut up and I have no sense of humor and I shut up and I go all word and I shut up. Poor human. Wipes nose.

Here just have my gravy fried steak.

What I mean is I love you so big sometimes I got nowhere to put it but maybe on the windowsill next to Orion’s nebula, and how does that work? You are not a talking lion for real. But you are. Because Poetry.

I’m not sure what to say about all the words of the poets yet. They do work on me, but it’s overlarge. I am overlarge about it, I mean. So I shut up for stretches hoping the next time the words come to mind I’ll see it quieter. Clearer. I’ll stop trying to make them mean things. And that’s maybe when they will get to mean something. Or nothing. But sit where they can best see me.

Sometimes I get overlarge in hearing a poet–Dear You, Your lung is a genius. Your brain is a bully. Your words make the mortar clinging at the alleybricks. Your heart carves canyons along that green heal ten thousand miles or more deep. I lose my shoes. And it’s easy to see I think you must by now agree that I love you just this way wide of over much.

I hope it’s pure, anyway. I hope the gratitude finds itself fine on fine days. But how on earth remember the way to listen? Just have to shut up a while sometimes a while sometimes until I remember a devastating necessity of pavement. Grain. Kneebones. Stupids. Overtheres.

And then I can hear you again for a little while and it’s nice to talk a bit, when you catch me in the places where it’s nice and oh hello and I haven’t yet remembered just how much you mean to me, before it gets gigantic in my head again and there’s no place for a person anymore and I have to shut up again and listen.