I want so much enjambment
that I cannot hear my lines break,
I want too much celebration and
not enough honesty, I want the
imagery of crowds back in my
hands, cliches running through
like sand. In rocky mountains and
bare slopes, let me wind down roads
with sickly sky. Let me say that
we will find this place again.
We will call this place the new normal
until sick of the repetition of dawn.