Not to wet the sand under
your capacity to know your own mind
or point to solar flares
at the appearance of the rainbow ball,
but are you sure you’re all right
being in love
with me because I’m not all that functional
or wise or anything?
Closest I’ve come to watching
Night of the Hunter was reading
an account of Lana Turner pissing
on Robert Mitchum. I’ve only
just begun banking online. No one
ever includes the freeze response
alongside the other two autonomic
ones. Like biopics of writers,
it’s low in action,
drool not being big box office.
I didn’t go to school, anywhere,
never mind Stanford.
I think, no, I worry (it’s worrying)
you fell in love without
all of these questions. I know I’d be best
served by talking myself somewhere,
like Christoper Robin, somewhere
a friend lived – lives – within their means,
stuck in their own door frame, or expecting
diminishment as more of their lot.