full moon over oslo in the middle of february, and
i have so little poetry in me that i’ve settled for writing about
writing instead, and how it bums me out. i wanted someone to come here to
show me a holy something; a peach or a lilac branch,
give me permission to think of bears and misbehave for a while.
i can’t do it by myself. i mean, i’m ¼ genetically kite i think, i need to be
carried and dragged and propelled and so on. right now i seem
to have caught on something (i hope it’s a mint tree) and i wish
more than anything to have inherited more kite-grace.

thinking about having a peat bedspread (i’ve even googled that
the other day) makes me remember the way i felt when
i put my feet into the marshes, and feeling that memory makes
me all fuzzy inside. it’s a scandalised kind of happiness, you know,
like shit, did we just get away with that? at the same time
i sit here wondering if there is a poem in fingerprints and
the shadows of the moon. some kind of b&w, 2d poem, that’s
embarrassingly opaque & beautiful. it will be weird but trust lives by its own impossibilities. 
it will be so weird.