I’m imagining America.
I’m fumbling to make this mine.
—Justin Chin
I’ve jumbled the glory of place
into this one for quite some time
and the brain in my head which,
when unfolded, becomes a map
the size of seven football fields
in the shape of America—cocky
word—because bigger is my best.
Sorry, I got lost. About how here
is better. Tonight, I sit alone, imag
ining my gigantic, unfolded brain
telling me to go someplace else.
Into this thicket. Or to the middle
of that desert. Press my flesh into
a certain butte. Fly over that cliff
as if soaring were a capability of
this bowled over brainless body.
I’ve jumbled the glory of place
into this one for quite some time
and the brain in my head which,
when unfolded, becomes a map
the size of seven football fields
in the shape of America—cocky
word—because bigger is my best.
Sorry, I got lost. About how here
is better. Tonight, I sit alone, imag
ining my gigantic, unfolded brain
telling me to go someplace else.
Into this thicket. Or to the middle
of that desert. Press my flesh into
a certain butte. Fly over that cliff
as if soaring were a capability of
this bowled over brainless body.
