room of ones own

sitting in the corner chair
staring at a room of white
and blue paintings that I’ve made
there are plenty of green plants
to contrast
I miss New York and the cold
I would have been feeling
I miss the stovetop that I had to light
with a lighter
there was a smell of
several seasons
of decay and bloom
the cycle
that just isn’t present
in this place
in this chair in the corner
of my room


Things found in poems:

Pants left in a Holiday Inn, a heartbreak
The woman across from me picking hairs off her sweater.
A rusty nail.
Blades of grass in the sentimental seasons.
Setting sun.
Dark blue glass bottles.
Black birds.
Crossed out lines.
Black pen ink.
Coffee mug stains.
Pressed daisies.
Sea salt.

A reading

Poets speak of nature
all that is wild and free
through a screen of images
the poet voice is prominent
broken only by the
silent pauses
and in between
the poet wears a scarlett
the poet is to be taken