I am finally reading Fanny Howe. Selected Poems. And she's kicking my ass, in a good way. After a particularly restless wrestle, I awoke with this in my head.


Think
I'm in love
with the poems
or is it lust?
certainly
we'll meet
and secret talk
of god
afterwhich
I'll pick words
from my teeth
like lettuce
apostrophes
a lumpy mess
of my throat.

Later, they'll turn
on me
the poems
I mean
grown tired of
my careful attention
to their every
word.

I'll pray
for a return
to before
alone
and preying
always praying
any way
but
any
way
that I can love
them
loving me.