Poets are everything

mismatched socks on clotheslines, gold flakes around the rim of a shot glass, tattoos, car fluids, cotton dust orbiting like satellites. We are failures and mechanics. We are immense sneezes and skin biters. We are compressed pieces of cork crumbling particle by particle in life’s hands. We are crock
pots. We are complicated. We pick at scabs – the ones unseen behind our ears, under our hairlines – we pick so they never heal. We clear dance floors. Our best diets are life changing emotional events. We are attics. We are addicted. We are what we write, if not always, for one brief second. We are human with owl-like senses. You are wounded, we can smell it.