I was absent and I’m sorry.
My poems were absent and – they're not.
They really don’t give a shit
about the where and the when.
About timeliness and regularity,
they are ambivalent as hell.
They wouldn’t get off the couch
if Hillary were running for president.
I told my tardiness to a friend.
My tardiness: it did not end.
Still I thought the poems might come –
from guilt or boredom or curiosity.
I told my friend, I am weary of poems.
I prefer not to use words
at all. Prefer to
sit with them in silence: hear them.
Oh for a poem that is not mine;
for words I can follow and
leave myself behind. They are always
mine and not mine. There’s nogetting away.