It was not the cup of hypnoerotic tea
but the calculation in her memoirs
that stirred the secret possum
hiding in the crowd
to dream of thermal compatibility.
As I was explicating these lines
to an immense golden hawk,
in language that I hoped it would understand,
and the leaf people jostled for position overhead
on the twigs of the sacred grove,
I heard the voice of a poet:
“Would you like me to help you cross the street?”
Or maybe it was “across the street”
but it was a real street I had to cross,
and a real poet, a poet who wanted to ensure
that I made it to my next poem,
the one where he would help me to cross a street
so I could safely attend his reading.
from Noir (Hanging Loose Press, 2017)
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