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 be
The form used to emit your Emmetts. I would not be
The wide field made clear, but rather, I’d be the Jungle
And Jim. The Jim’s here are automatons, their interior
Crowded with stolen crowns, bloodied crowbars. The manual
Mentions 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 surrounded
And 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.