The Beautiful Things She Will Do
I sleep and think about you with my eyes closed.
You seem to fill every room I’m in.
To be still and bloom again,
to be fulfilled in singing amen.
To my ceaseless conceit.
For you have taken me,
shaken me by the hair,
mistaken me for a prayer,
O despair, you have forsaken me.
As punctuation to a letter,
you too have made me think.
I’ll roll in circles of ink
until I know how you feel.
For I am no poet,
I am the poem on the page:
the fruit of someone’s plot to be better,
the debtor in some pixie-dust letter.
I cannot forget her
To my sour aspiration
and the beautiful things she will do.