Poem

Thank you for the skull-shaped balloon,
which reminds me of the sky at night when it’s drowsy
full of leopards, but don’t ask me to explain that.
You should know for certain that nothing is certain,
except for the things that have already been,
and even those fade in the frazzle of memory
and re-memory, memory and re-memory, a series
of serious misperceptions and mistakes. But this
in the end is the most of what’s required,
tripping over our own feet as we crush
against lightning. I’m trying to manipulate this poem
as a way to make you trust me/as a way to make you
trust yourself, full-blast a thousand-thousand versions
of imperfection. We are our most perfect selves
when our selves fall fully to pieces, by which I mean
the sweater unravels as we make it, the under-drawing
shows when we try to paint it out. What you want
out of things in life, no matter how splattered,
is exactly the point. Rob your own bank
and drip money. Live inside a fish and get light.
So much that there is is so much that’s on fire.
Do you walk upon water or a tightrope?

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