Notes of a poet on surviving the market.
it is dangerous to build a cross
of parts — salty swollen wood -
inside us
do not find the red romantic when
when you spit
it in the white basin
every morning
wondering if you can
call them red poppies in a snowfield
every shaking, every trembling
do not twist them into a crown
do not build an altar out of your sadness
for them to pray
do not shatter your innards
for the pennies they will throw
tell them the magician is on leave today
there is no trick
the show must not go on
there is no one to tip the hat today
no one hungry for your applause
know that our hands are not clean
either — a market runs
on supply and demand
they will come with wrong labels
and stickers for our jars tell them
darkness only flails in a pool of
identity crisis
it does not fade
if they call it light
it is not light
but heavy
and today I am
not going to lift
I am sitting
still
will they still
come to watch?
