I traced a facsimile
on a sheet of graph paper:
the boreal forest. A field loud
with colorless birds. Delirious
as a midnight locomotive,
mood ring, you should be afraid
of me. Faithfully, faithfully,
I have fed on regrets
and reddened sentiments, a season
like the strain of a canary
in the apartment next door.
What regrets. A sense of the public
contracting like a woman’s chest.
My most brutal loneliness,
those fields ripping by
the covered wagon. Last night
under the stage lights,
I was taken by bare resignation,
a new fault line craning inside me.
To keep from crying, I considered you
I bit my lip into a talisman.