Because I finished something, I thought
I could begin again. It’s more a strange intervention
of personality that settles on an ending than anything else.
When I was younger—maybe you, too—the immediate
response would have been inadvertently offensive
but I’ve made a point of exceeding my own expectations.

Wildflowers Out of Gas

by Joe Ceravolo: Corina gave this to me oh like eight years ago.

It was a photocopy, but it was her only copy. I think

Mac had made it for her? He, I know, is a zealot

for Ceravolo, once held Joe’s then-unpublished long poem,

The Hellgate, to a xerox machine and couldn’t go through with it

or was otherwise caught. I suspect the latter. He may have gotten

a page or two. Computers invading the penis and breast or cleaning

them away. It’s one or the other. Joe’s god clears the system

or complicates it, a poem of the holy body, carnal revisions

to divinity, dedicated to divinity itself. A friend

tweets their mother has passed away, and the mentions

start trending. I see them all day but don’t reply.

[Brooklyn, 12-12-18]