‘where do you
want to be..
(huh? when?)
you know
where do you
want to be?
(i’m not following you)
where do you
want to be
on the bookshelf?
(well..i’m not…)
you know..
between bukowski
and cummings?
dillard and duncan?
between ginsberg and joyce?
keats and kerouac?
between oliver and plath?
between rimbaud and verlaine?
between wharton
wheaten
and williams?
where?
where do you think
you’ll be?’

that’s easy..
i won’t be
anywhere
beyond here..
my dreams are smaller
my ego too fragile
to fit on a shelf
of any sort..

i want to stay here
its more contained
i can barely
handle
the raw
the nakedness
the cruelty
the deceptions
the lies
of where we
are now..
this often overwhelms
in its simplicity..

i can only stay
on this bare shelf
until its time to go..
not a moment longer..