Are as valuable to me
As hearths were to Frankenstein,
Heroin to Kurt Cobain—
As addiction to habit
And habit to pleasure, so
Fantasy to poetry,
Poetry to memory.
Here’s a thank-you to Brenda,
Who doesn’t know me from words,
For providing me the lines
That say better than these lines
How it feels when lines happen
To me, “a god-load / of grief
Dumped down from some heaven / where
Words rain down / and the poet
Is soaked.” This happens to me.
This keeps happening. I wish
It explained why “the poets
Are dying.” The damned poems aren’t.
These poems and their fantasies,
Every day they’re soaking me.