when the hammers in my head wouldn’t let go
like a musical instrument bent heavenward
this is why I say I am boring
another pounding
of young poets and their wakefulnesses
is also why I am sitting here waving down a dragon
hold steady
looking out through this window’s window I see
lots of invoices
the steamroom is empty but for me and my
plastic pages full of poems
I said I want to be nearly as big as that sycamore
so when you look at the photograph ask which is me
