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for Ceravolo, once held Joe’s then-unpublished long poem,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