Just a simple little piece of writing.

 
Today I:
made a comic strip people
like using

nothing but my brain at 5am.
Did yoga using nothing
but this old body, these old limbs.

Worked and worked work for
eleven hours on a Monday
even though no

one made me even
though I know 
no one will remember 

today.
Ran a 5k I didn’t even mean to,
but the light was a nice purple,

the dirt mostly sand and 
I didn’t see 
another person for forty-five minutes.

Made a simple
dinner that wasn’t even sad,
only remarkably plain,

and today I wrote
this and even though
it ‘s no good,

I still made it 
today. 
.
.
.

Library Books.

Oh, not for nothing, the best way to read poetry is to get books from a library because then other people have read them before you and you can see where they folded the corners of the pages down because they saw something written there that meant something to them and then you get to look at that same page that meant something to someone else and you get to wonder what it was and why and then the reading you do is not like the reading you normally do because now you are reading it along with that other person who is there now in your life like frozen smoke and it’s the same kind of intimacy you get when you drink with someone by passing the bottle back and forth between you. It is an intimacy that only ever lasts the length of that poem, but also never quite goes away.

Returning the book to the library is hard though.

.

.

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