My mind is inclined towards poetry,
so that when I open my mouth the words
trip over themselves in a frantic attempt
to be beautiful, to be more than ordinary.
And they don’t know much, these words,
about the world they’re falling into because
we live in the ordinary, depend on it, in fact –
we are born to be comfortable and they are
so confused about how readily acceptable
that is that someday, I’m afraid,
they may cease coming at all.