I wanted to write a poem about sex.
Because I’m a boy. But it’s not
any more, about that.
I wanted to write a poem about distance.
Because it’s real. And I’ve been there
before. And that’s why
I wanted to write about fear.
And cycles. And habitual inclination
to the unobtainable.
I wanted to write about love.
But we have, and we have not, and too often
I wanted to write a novel (laugh here)
so instead, I wrote
There’s a beating of wings in cacophonous night, and I’m not sure
if it’s coming or if it’s going or if the trees in the leaves’ shudder are
memories of fixed winters, or recent years, or wooden gears
grinding metal, throwing redyelloworange, whiteandblack sparks
sapping sepia of its magick, or our spirits, or the gods of substance
or if no more these things than the things
cast inside, interrupting, disrupting, unravelling and breaking, fighting
outer gravity with a force, an internal divorce with
myself—just the passing of wings without song, or a bird, to direct.
I wrote this
because it’s you, and its me
and I’m a man and it’s true
that I’ve never wanted
to write anything