A Journal Poem by the Snowy Window (or Binge Poem #1)

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sometimes i think we get so full and plush with poems
that we could sink forever into this dreary mess of ourselves
tumbling over and over into some murk of divided word play
and filler vowels,
(the realisms poke through with sudden and irreplaceable fervor,
rather like salmon bones, i'd say)
and it's all a bit much, isn't it? the way we've spun ourselves up
so thick and needy with words
and you can almost taste the metallic pride of it,
chanting, "yes, yes, let me say it this time at last,"
and then, just like a fog or heavy purple curtain
falling stiffly across your lap, the words you'd meant to mean much more
are shuttered off into some lingering abyss
and all the important matter of speaking it dissipates like smoke,
and it takes everything to call those pieces back, back
to the world you've hummed into being.

i keep my poems cupped in my hands like newborn breaths.

and i suppose they are, rather,
heaving over themselves and rummaging around my palms,
digging their tinily snouted rhymes into the crevices
where my fingers press together,
like cradling water, or
like cradling life.