I don’t think I’m brave enough to be a poet or angry enough.
I sit there in the perfumed dark, the air like steamed oranges.
⚘
I want to be born again but then I think of all the suffering
I’d have to endure. All night I beat uselessly against the dark
⚘
like a moth’s wings against the inside of a lampshade. Maybe
                               I’ll let the poem save me. Let all its promises be gold.                                          

From “I Have So Much Left To Confess”

Originally published in The Rumpus