or it’s not, or whatever

It’s all rush rushing underneath until I stop to feel the quiet. And even then, it’s difficult to locate, difficult to fall in fully, it takes patience, a careful tuning. Sometimes I do not have that. All the time, I sleep until I don’t. I am searching for ways to make the distinction between the two more concrete, to turn the middle ground into something tangible, so I can hold it in my palms and then throw it out my car window. I think a poem is only as powerful as the circumstances of your first reading of it. Does that make sense to you? Reading Atwood in a lonely highschool library on a winter’s day–that’s powerful. Coffee shops are powerful. If there is a cup of tea in your hand, or on the table next to you, that is powerful. Or it’s not, I really don’t know. I’ve been reading Modernist poetry and only some of it has that sinking quality, that feet-buried-in-the-sand kind of secure quality. So I’ll suffer through the rest to get my moment of catharsis. I’m entitled to it, or whatever. I’m holding on to it, it is something I can hold on to, and I need that right now, can’t you see? Can’t you see, I’ve forgotten how to write a poem & I’ve forgotten how to have a grasp on true silence when it sits in the air and this is just an exercise to refamiliarise myself with the two. So don’t take it too seriously. Or do. I don’t care–really.

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