From Tantrums in Air, which will be published in June by The Song Cave.

If, as I suspect, all language has died
for me, at least for the time being, then I’ll trot
out the little reeking phonemes,
the dancing spines, the disremembered—
and I promise I will not try. Someone smells amazing
at the weird art party
where I am asked to read poetry
to looping electronic music.
I want to be a poet entirely
of a different kind. Later I discover
the scent is coming from the scrawny potted jasmine
blooming in the corner, dropping her
syrup on the floor. It’s nice to meet a fellow
whore in the world.