All this blazing in compression, random
snippets from the calendar: my whole life
in a minute & an echoing of days. I'm dozing
or I'm dreaming & happy to be so evening,
so out of it, so dusk. Listen to the rain coax
chronology from the sky. Airplanes in the night
& their hollow metal wingings; there's a touchdown
in the dark maybe an hour ago. Already & again.
Roaming through this tragedy, my hemisphere of grief.
Meaning I've bent over backwards for a kiss before.
I've put myself in ridiculous positions for love.
It's frightening, all this romance, & the drinking
helps forget it. Now it's later. The story we're telling
picks up before it started. There are other cities
to be razed or fumbled among, there's a glitz that turns
to bloodlust under the right kind of moon.
My desire is to pluck the petals off all the beauty things
& not just flowers. To hold one bit of sweetness
in the fingers of your hand. To get out of bed
when you're sick. To think of words & think of words
& think of words again. More words & better words.
I'm reading again the Hours to figure out the symphony.
To unplug the ears & cross the uncrossed wires.
This is something blowing up. This is patience.
[Nate Pritts, 'Autobiographical', from Sweet Nothing: Poems]