Sooooooooooo, these are two poems I banged out for creative writing class. I’ve since had the time to revise them, and they suck slightly less now.

In and of Itself

I saw
“And every day I
thank your love”
sharpied under the bridge.

A bridge covers distance
between thoughts.

And every day I
think your love.

A bridge bridges
pretense, and
“it” itself.

But whose love?
Whom do I thank?
And everyday,
I think.



Her approach
seems so uncertain,
tenuously balanced
against the fisted violence
we felt beneath our stomachs,
heat like angry, foolish children.

And in thinking of her
things collapse into white want,
so that I must recover myself
where the blindness of her
doesn’t disable
or provoke.


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