i'm trying to
submerge myself
in words, hoping
to drown in this art
until my words
detach and float
to the surface.
the stack
of poetry beside my bed is at least
shin-high, filled
with the words i'll pull
out of their context and rearrange
into my own patterns
until i can stack them against
the chaos outside.
sometimes
when i am alone,
i start to believe
the only reason i write
is the fault of quantum
mechanics.
i see
the page blank, and must
replace all those possibilities
with anything definable
to keep away the swirling
could-bes of what-ifs and try-mes and
what-the-fuck-is-this and what-
does-it-all-really-mean
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