A Poet Can't Write a Thing like That

A shadow draws upon my shoulder in the cold air 

And it felt like a breath from a God I dont remember 

Snow trickles off of the roof like sand in an hourglass 

I’ve made my home in the dunes of the northwest

A poet cant write anything out here 

In the country

Words can't find me

Out of circulation and on a plot never broken

I release my gaze like a pigeon and it looks back at me with confusion

Scarecrows occupy the gardens and dark houses drip frozen 

Birdhouses are abandoned and a poet can write a thing in this slow commotion

I need suits at the barstools and assholes picking up pretty women for a dollar

I need rats in the intersections

And businessmen flocking like the ratking attached by the eyes they do not believe

When the city lights at night could blind tomorrow

And the rooms lit with life could kill my sorrow 

There are no street lamps out here

No taxis and no tenements filled with stories   

No hubris in the guise of foreplay

There is nothing out here 

Only quiet 

Only a piety for the display of the great anomaly

And a poet can't make anything out of that

A poet makes beauty out of trash and grit

The lake froze over in November 

Crystallizing in a persistent crawling plague 

I walk over the cackling ice under the freezing sun as the Huether 

Speaking in mums and whispers 

From the lake I trace the deer prints and keep my back to the wind 

I knew the city was cancer but at least it showed hunger

Every morning is night and every day is a warm bed unmade

Nonetheless, I write

And I think the boredom is only peace in disguise

I’d never known it before 

Sometimes when I watch the birds build their homes and families

I wonder at what point Pan comes down to have a drink

Because I must be waiting for something

I must expect something 

I hate it because I can't thumb my nose at any of it

Nothing to eat up and scoff at 

Nothing to chew and feed the nest with

And a poet can't write anything like that