In The New Republic
-for Rachel Wetzsteon
I do not
see a map-
size water puddle in cement.
I see an area of competition it rivals, though
I see no superior saying, but an inferior to my space
I taxi reverse-engineered tragedies but hope it has a lot
will put itself to none of your start and against the chafe
on my foot pinky that's culturally China, your name
lays below your face.
It's not so much the difficulty of a flat-
ter compromise as it is
the juxta-
position of two
girls and the homeless to
the streets that's going to be gone
with you there in the lid of a soda opened
no longer the laughing-stock of the cars and I will
before me
be for you.
I do not
see a map-
size water puddle in cement.
I see an area of competition it rivals, though
I see no superior saying, but an inferior to my space
I taxi reverse-engineered tragedies but hope it has a lot
will put itself to none of your start and against the chafe
on my foot pinky that's culturally China, your name
lays below your face.
It's not so much the difficulty of a flat-
ter compromise as it is
the juxta-
position of two
girls and the homeless to
the streets that's going to be gone
with you there in the lid of a soda opened
no longer the laughing-stock of the cars and I will
before me
be for you.
Labels: death of a poet, Rachel Wetzsteon, the new republic poetry editor
