(I wrote you most days from the rainforest floor)
                                                                              This is where the                       
moss was                                                           
  ­                                                                 ­         
                                       and they were too

I am out of touch and missing all at once                                 unable to get back to the surface
swimming next to a blue flame
glowing ectoplasm glitters
the tour guide is a woman’s voice       under the stars and everything concave is inside out     far away from what it once was,
                                                            ­                              uninverted
happy is the uncertain                     I looked for you in the chrysalis       and you
                                                             ­                  were still wearing
                                                         ­                                 your socks
                                                           ­      
when you disappeared
I found them in my drawer three days later      tucked themselves in still covered in glitter from the caves
I had so many questions when I reached out my hands
stuck to the walls and swallowed my palm
                                                            ­  silicone and retreating light
it wanted me to stay in a time I could only help but leave
the artists gold leafed my throat like it was delicate and
ready to go on stage                                           wearing shoe covers walking and talking       gently avoiding          swimming their arms the foxgloves developed negatives backwards                                in gelatine                                                         ­                 over water
pasted down                         every darkness bright green lime green stinging                                                         ­  immediately
                                                                ­                             nauseous turning to stone                                      under the gaze of the walls.

An exercise in line breaks.  See below

Give me notice (Version One)

Give me notice
For life is short
I might have more to do
Than rest on your doorstep
Hoping you will open the latch
Greet me with a smile
Suggest we spend the day
Viewing the community pond
Feeding the ducks
Cementing our bond

Give me notice
So I will not
Fall in love alone

Give Me Notice (Version Two)

GIVE ME NOTICE

Give me notice
Life
can be short

I might have
more to do

Than rest
on your doorstep

Hoping
you will
open the latch

Greet me
with a smile

Suggest we
spend the day

By the village pond

Feeding
the ducks

Cementing
our bond

Give me
notice

So I
will not
fall in love
alone

I wonder sometimes
why droll observations;
recollections of a personal and
sometimes confessional nature,
(interesting enough in themselves – if well-written),
get called “poems” when broken up by
weird line spacing. Nothing against
descriptive prose –
but I don’t think it is truly
Poetry. You can call it that
if you want; I don’t
mind.