hundred waters
four tet
björk
bon iver
a poet will never profess his love plainly
or if he does it is obligatory
---
never fall in love with your hypothesis---
- Peter Medawar
who needs blinds when you've got
impervious eyes and a face, naked
and tattooed with craters; caressed
by Mars, love-bitten by
meteorites; markings
that, from afar, look like some kind of smile
and, up close, a sigh snuck softly
into every dotted i
how do you wrestle all that beauty
into one person, and keep your skin
from catching fire when
you're stealing, drinking
sunlight, raining rays down
like argent hail - such heavy light
(maybe now we'll stop falling
into wells at night) but not on purpose
of course; it seeps from your fingertips
and leaks through every pore
there was a time, long ago, when you
were famous - received accolades,
got called such lovely sobriquets -
when men fought to ink in your orbits,
to decipher your depths and plant
their flags, which they did and you grew
fat, and then lean and then
leaner still
you held your breath till you
turned blue, the seas stopped turning
and no one knew when you had vanished
the quiet, the calm - the silence devastated you
with readings that were too hasty, too shallow -
obsessed with their reflections, the whites
of their lies, and you let them
believe that they were right
you were and always have been
the girl they never knew
---
I don't really want to make it big. I just want to meet people and mean something
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