︎︎︎


potentiale poem,
                          tact-ile
back-yards,

                                                               and grâve



we all lived in small rooms
facing backyards in there
trying to fit our burdened lives 
from windows spilling all of it
all evidence
watching people hang laundry
host barbecues and raise kids
we all had small notebooks
with larger words than the frames
our short lines were written in the evenings
and longer thoughts left to next day 
I would come up with a theme
until it felt worn and old
like the clothes I would find of yours
time there nonlinear and odd
in the back of my closet
wondering if they still smelled like your skin
I wouldn’t know 
how many days since
leaving notes
too direct too literal
skipping some lines
as skipping some steps in love
looking for a metaphor
another life is sweet
a backyard with graffiti and a swing 
curly hair left to dry by itself
I wouldn’t want to have what I didn’t 
for we all had beautiful dreams 
and asking whoever 
that couldn’t handle the truth
to leave the room
to go away, to leave us alone
hey come be drawn in my vortex
leave a mark on my references
when things overlapped, when dreams made together sense
we mistook our thoughts as not ours
raising a text 
elevating the mess
and why shouldn’t love end 
forever as our word, as goodbye,
I heard you were moving
I heard you were going somewhere 
I heard you were seeking
I could come up with a word for each month and write a poem out of it you wouldn’t read
we could smoke and drink and eat 
in the backyard
and ask for the guests to leave before 5 pm
before we peak
we could hear rumours
that the other loves you more 
than you ever could yourself
more than I should I give myself 
to these matters
we could trace time by the books we are reading
and only count the words that do make sense
a concept, always a concept
a backyard
next to the shovel
I’m hiding in your shed.



02.22