I’m writing a poem today about water. It’s four states of matter (which as you know aren’t states but phases, because they change). We think of water as having three states—ice, water, and steam. But there’s one more in the deep sea vents when the force of all the water compresses and makes something that’s both water and steam. It’s called supercritical water, which might work in my poem. It’s about forgiveness. About the heart, as both flawed love and a muscle. So I think I’ll e able to work in supercritical, where something we thought not possible happens in some place we’ll never see.
Judy Halebsky, Tree Line
Look, if you don’t want me, say so. My time can be spent; I just don’t want to waste it.
Is it weird that, when I listen to music, you’re the only thing I hear?
In the end, I guess it’s about what you weren’t able to recognize in me, not about what I showed you.
Have you seen her naked, with all her clothes on?
time will place us
in the past that
there will be no future
to come back to
that if we
to stack and
the way atoms
do, then maybe
we’ll have some
form of substance
I’m trying to be part of this generation by being apart from this generation.
I thought those were chime shells in your pocket, so I chucked a quarter at it, hoping to hear some part of you respond on a high note. You acted like I was hurling crowbirds at mockingbars and abandoned me for not making sense. Evidently, I don’t experience things as rationally as you do.