It’s likely that I cannot tell you anything
About the way Georgia stars look like except
Maybe from the depiction of an internet search.
And I cannot recite Aristotle or Louise Gluck
By memory, but I can probably give you a list
Of how easy it is to find ruin under a rock.
There is a chance I can talk at length about
Warmth, too, and its hands
With how they stressed alongside mine
Just to prove how easy it is to multiply and
Expand and how it is indispensable.
Once I was walking and kicked over a rock
Looking for nothing in particular and my
Life was in ruins. Once I acknowledged
The sun and I looked forward and moved.
It is highly unlikely that I’ll ever spit up fire,
But I can tell you I’ve come close to Georgia
Stars: I had been awake for three nights and
No end seemed to be in sight, and I thought
Of Richard Siken writing, Everything is
happening at the wrong end of a very long tunnel,
And I thought myself a fever but a beautiful one
that crept into the mouth of someone
Almost dead and how, in an instant,
Everything could change. Am I close?
