Admitting what you love makes you bolder still

Will you say I should’ve looked
up in that city. I never did?
An easy one. We’ll start with it.


Big trees and paperwork,
a node in the brain feeling:
Write these poems now.
Voice of the node coming along


shaped like a cauliflower head
shot with lights. You my old counterpart.
My heart’s in pretty good shape
except that I react to your messages with lies.
Your loving embracing old robes
mouth around you—maybe
(I remind you of this gently)
there’s a belt to remind them?


I your counterfeit bill
with corner gone expecting
a later validation
and regeneration. The true self,
the node, waits for love.


What will you love without analysis?
What will you learn or do? You’re not
just me, worn out. Your robe’s different,
cute as a button—a bug’s ear—


your eyes turned down. Will you
say I should’ve asked him
for it out loud? This version
of you is very close,
a caul over her eye.


I bet you still stoop for buttons.
That’s how I’ll draw your lucky portrait.