BEE MORRIS

Fruit of the moment explaining itself. Each
dreaded calibration of the muscle as vital
as poetry. All his charisma bloodshot by

the end of the night. I broke down my
philosophy into smaller, more manageable shapes.
I grew new hairs on my chin, legs, belly.

How it killed me to apply the proper term:
evidence, not scenery. The brutal thing
being that momentary exodus of poise.

Recalling my allowances meanwhile a small
red vapor comes up from my thoughts. Attractive
people in strange clothes, across the city, are
sipping imperative cocktails. Drawing tells me
what my lines of poetry have never been. But
the way I used to dance can still become legend.

These glistening pools,
like my desire, are wet things.

Only the clouds were in fields called sky.

How I feel now is like
an Edward Hopper painting.

Everything happening, television,
“it gets easier,” you said.

In this exhausted forest.
In this half-dream resumed.