ONE ART

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant 
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.


–Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied.  It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

How to Touch Her

Technically, and with a love of
technicalities mixed with childlike
wonder, and also a little shame
at the long history of the ignorance
of men. Touch her the way
you would touch whatever’s behind
glass and a Do Not Touch sign
if the glass were suddenly removed
and the sign were given you
to fold it into a beautiful paper crane
to give to her. Touch her that way
every time as though it were
the first time. And when you consider
your cells and her cells are dying
and being born all the time, technically, it is.

spilled ink

You are the universe;

An endless expanse of the unknown.

You’re far away in the stars,

Yet I am grounded.

I long to walk amongst your galaxies,

Yet you are so far.

Please come down to earth.

Adult Problems

Me, putting my sheets into the washing machine: this is going to be the best gonna smell so good be so soft and comfy

Me, having to put the sheets back on: why does god allow suffering

phantom feelings...

Do you ever suffer from phantom feelings? a phantom vibration from your phone but no one has messaged you? or the worst one of all: phantom food. your server comes out of the kitchen with your meal on a tray, delicious and steaming, making it’s way to you, your mouth salivating with eager anticipation, and right before it’s about to be yours the server angles their trajectory just a tad, moves to the next table—it was never yours to begin with. well, we know that pain. you are not alone.

Randoms...

So you’re a young lady living in Mulan’s village. Like the other girls you get all dolled up and go to the matchmaker to find a husband.

The local tomboy goes first so you’re chilling outside, psyching yourself up, chatting up the gals, when you hear a crash from inside followed by screaming.

Out runs the matchmaker, she’s covered in ink and on fire. Mulan throws an entire kettle of steaming tea in her face. The matchmaker yells at her that she will never be married or bring her family honor. It’s been at most five minutes.

What do you do? Do you just, like, go home? Explain to your family you didn’t get a husband cause your neighbor set the matchmaker on fire? Do you go inside and try your luck at getting a husband on the 50-50 shot she gives all the well behaved girls good husbands out of spite while risking her foul mood giving everyone shitty matches?

Idk I just wanna know how that afternoon went for everyone else there.

The Neighborhood So Far

If my heart is a house
then it stands on your street
in the little village
where you are paperboy,
mailman, garbage collector,
water meter reader,
building inspector, vacuum
cleaner salesman, UPS driver,
yard crew, chimney sweep,
window washer, tax assessor,
magazine solicitor,
census taker,
snow shoveler, house painter,
voyeur, door to door
scam artist, vandal,
burglar, thief
extortionist, thief
burglar, thief
arsonist arsonist arsonist.