homeostasis

You pull off dead rose heads

and you sprinkle more plant food

And wait for new buds

You love friend one

And you love friend two

But they say awful things of each other

Once to discipline your time

You committed with your mouth

Then planted your feet lifeless

Sometimes you even believe yourself

When arguing about rain with others

It’s not that you want to have written the book

But to lift the lining of each page

And rearrange the letters into the right order

You want your words to be of the page

You don’t want an ending

That is sad of its hopeful beginning

You want a real impersonator

one who knows what dirt feels like

poem without gravity

Instead, the poem is weightless & floating

Not quite flight

but hovering above without

rigid corseting back to earth

This might be true nature—no stiff joints from weight bearing

no compacted vertebrae

no real deadlines low crime

Poems float

along as they please:

the body immaterializes

No forced social interactions or fear of falling intrude the poem

Drifting above

the ocean is simple

quiet & isolating like a singular ball of mercury singing

without glass

Since the poem is no longer compressed

it can raise its arms to the stars in blank trajectory

but it doesn’t cascade towards them either

The poem lacks the need for meaning

like spring pollen that doesn’t land anywhere

The poem doesn’t endure analytical conversation

for no poems remains close enough to one another

The poem must secure itself down to maintain control

Although there is no coerced cling to earth, there is still inertia

The poem becomes obsessed with changing

& creates its own force

It pulls to push off objects & people & other poems

We don’t know where the poem will land

But its mass craves other masses