Conversation of a drunk poetess and her lover

Ryan Hardy

- trees grow all around,
but I’m a naked, drunken, healthy cow, a poetess,
well, what are you gonna do?!
should I tell you my name?
- no, you better not.
- i’ll swing by houses, you know, to sort of grace them…
red circles are all around, can’t see anything at all…

beams of light come from me, going in all directions…
maybe i’m some sort of saint?!
- of course, you’re a saint, without a doubt!
by the way, your phone line was cut off ’cause of me,
even though i’d never even seen it…
you know, your phone is a total piece of shit, you motherfucker!
- i’m a saint, a saint!
- yes, yes, a saint you are…

* * *

Snow, having fallen in the morning,
was the first page
of memoirs yet to be written
          about big bodies
imprisoned in a confined space

Is it through friction, insulation,
or a feeling of being adrift,
          of uncertainty
that rushes of blood are driven to the temples?

When the element of choice is lost,
          you fit into the system
          and forget to think
the season’s change is coming.