No mark survives this place: you too will yield
to unmemory.

Hanged"
I hung myself today. Hanged? Whatever,
the point is I hanged myself today and I’m still
hanging.

I feel fine. Just bored. I keep hoping that
someone will come home and cut me down
but then I keep remembering that if I knew
someone like that I wouldn’t be up here. Bit
ironic, right? Or is that not ironic? I read
somewhere that, like, anything funny is,
in some way, ironic. But I don’t know if it's
funny or not. I don’t think my brain owns
“funny”, you know?

I feel taller. I like that.
I’ve never been away from my shadow for
this long. It had always clung to my feet,
parting momentarily for a quick dive into
the swimming pool. But never for five
hours. I like it. There’s three feet of space
between my two and the floor.

I wanted something this morning. I may be
stuck. But at least I’m three feet closer to it.

...you hold a poem
that functions half as personal
note and half as telescope
to the heights
awaiting us all.

The red washing
down the bathtub
can't change the color of the sea
at all.

And I try to remember if this happened before, because this is a memory I would want to keep.
But there is no echo of it in my mind.