Do you hear that? All the things

I meant to do are burnt spoons

hanging from the porch like chimes,

Do you have some wind? Just a hit

and was the grass always this vocal?

A hit and the blades start sharpening

in the sun. I wear a belt

because my pants don’t fit.

My pants don’t fit because I wear

the belt. I can tell you how it tastes.

Tannin. Heaven. Is it May already?

As onetime owner of my own

private spring, I can say

it’s overrated. Remember? Someone

found me in a coffee shop bathroom

after I’d overdone it

and carried me like a feed sack

to the curb. As they brought me back,

they said, the poppies on my arms

bruised red petals.

They said, He’s your savior.

But let’s not get carried away.

Let’s stop comparing everything

to wings. Have you ever even felt

like you’re going to not die

forever? It’s terrifying.

–William Brewer

Brewer, W. (2017). I know your kind: poems.

Minneapolis, Minnesota: Milkweed Editions, p. 21-22