Being Sixteen In The Pants I Died

I Sit At My Desk Each Night With No Place To Go, Opening The Wrinkled Maps Of Milwaukee And Buffalo, The Whole U.s., Its Cemeteries, Its Arbitrary Time Zones, Through Routes Like Small Veins, Capitals Like Small Stones.

You Who Have Inhabited Me In The Deepest And Most Broken Place, Are Going, Going

You Must Be A Poet, A Lady Of Evil Luck Desiring To Be What You Are Not, Longing To Be What You Can Only Visit.

Being Kissed On The Back Of The Knee Is A Moth At The Windowscreen.

Blue Eyes Wash Off Sometimes.