A poem is never finished, only abandoned.
Well none of us ever fit the whole of our soul on one page.
I look back through my journal, come across anchored, dolphins,
flips end over end. It was New Year's Day.
He didn't say he didn't love me, though he didn't say he did.
With the most ordinary garbage floating around in my brain
how could I think he'd pick me? I pick and bite my fingertips till
they bleed. Trying to be healthy, we're eating rain-
bows and writing down our thoughts. You can't put cerebellum
in a poem, he says. The dark and dreamy luxury of winter...
Luxury? Winter? What?! Frosted with winter sun,
I say, the dark and dreary dream is splintered.
Liminality, then. Identity, too.
It's small enough, this boundary to you.