Poetry

I can’t
drive anymore and find a park in Bakersfield
where it is quiet and there are no
other cars. And can’t sleep.

Just because I was born
precisely here or there,
in some cold city or other,
don’t think I don’t remember
how I came along like a grain
carried by the flood—

The trouble with you is you’re not
loving enough. A drastic
summons, a trumpet of

Poetry is not a code
to be broken
but a way of seeing
with the eyes shut,