after Terrance Hayes
But here, I am the poem that’s a room I welcome you in.You write me as the glass hidden amongst the grass,The slave running through me to capture other slaves.If not for the way an American touches me, I would beThe form used to emit your Emmetts. I would not beThe wide field made clear, but rather, I’d be the JungleAnd Jim. The Jim’s here are automatons, their interiorCrowded with stolen crowns, bloodied crowbars. The manualMentions acoustics, instinct and metaphor but I love chaos.The piano in my author’s room have three, broken keys,Though, he still plays Caravan inside the room surroundedAnd filled by darkness. The mind’s a playground in forests.I made myself only to frequent swing-sets and seesaws,To play and ride the cool air, to fall and kiss the warm earth.