it does not need to save the world
it needs only to save me—save me

like home canned tomatoes
acid & red & surrounded by glass

this poem is the last
phone booth in America

I starve for touch—the sensorium
of fingertips like a whisper on flesh
a rebellion against conformity

I don't have the heart to act
my age—magnolia flowers in the night
like ghosts in the dark—hint of home

and watershed—of all the ways
there are to be in the world—I'm
an open casket—an acolyte

of the ridiculous—a voice reflected
like a face in a cracked mirror—two
faces stare back—two songs sung

this poem will not save the world
it may not even save me