kind of messing around. i've been reading a lot of billy collins and william carlos williams, almost to the exclusion of other poets. whether or not this is a good thing, i'm not sure. and not to say that i am trying to write like them either. just experimenting. collins and williams seem to make even the most mundane subject come to life and i think that's what i was attempting to do here. i may or may not have succeeded. i am a poor judge of my own work.

i. don't really know about this one.


you didn't have a name but i gave
you one anyway. (i don't know you
you don't know me) i passed you in
the hallway and your head was down,
eyes fixed at your feet. you had
your hands out, fingers adorned with
rings and things, and palms tothesky
upturned. you were talking to no one;
or maybe you were talking to everyone,
i didn't stop to ask who you were, or to
whom you were speaking. i didn't stop
to ask why you were looking at the ground
beneath your feet. maybe it was
just the most beautiful thing you'd
ever seen. maybe your feet were
welded to the spot. maybe you were
earthshaken and naked, stripped down,
unabletomove immobile, hair slipping into
your eyes and you: not moving to brush it
aside. paralyzed inside by something i

cannot define.