And this is another one of those.
This is a poem called--
related poem-- this is a poem called "The Poet
is Served Her Papers."
"So tell me about fever dreams, about the bad checks
we scrawl with our mouths, about destiny
missing last bus to oblivion.
I want to tell lies to the world and believe it.
Speak easy, speak spoken to, speak
lips opening on a bed of nails.
Hear the creaking of cardboard in these telling shoes?
The mint of my mind gaping far out of style?
Hear the milling of angels on the head of a flea?
My broke blood is sorrel, is a lone mare,
is cashing in her buffalo chips.
As we come to the culdesac of our hearts slow division
tell me again about true love's bouquet,
paint hummingbird hearts taped to my page.
Sign me over with X's and passion.
Seal on the lick of a phone, my life.
And pay.
And pay."