returned.

i wanted to go somewhere to be alone,

undistracted.

i'm on the floor of the book trader,

my back and toes to new and

withered spines,

wedged here between domesticated shelves 

of poets and musical geniuses,

the tortured artists starry-eyed

for other women (i'll never be) .

everything is poetry today.

the words are coming easier

than operating this pen.

i fan myself with a copy of

"passing," poems by eloise

klein healy, 

if she's famous, 

i don't know.

i'm pondering

whether or not it's

heartbreaking

to discard a book of

poems,

like,

what was it about

healy that stunned

the senses dull--

i want someone to

hold onto me like a keats

or a bukowski.

i never find bukowski

in used book stores.