Late Night Notes

This doesn't work out? I'm moving away, under the sea.
Going to be a nanny to a school of clever fish.
I'd skip out to the stars,
write down their sputtering silences.
I'll dig and dig
until I can warm myself with the molten core of the earth.
This doesn't work
and I'm damned to start to lose myself
the wind will blow one day
and a little bit of me will be gone
the next, a little more
until I'm gone altogether.
I'll live in a tree house,
learn the language of growing green things,
never speak again so that any man can hear.
I'll billow and fly away like a sail, a kite
into a blue blank sky
and cover myself in clouds
and scream lightning and thunder.
I'll become transparent,
people will see through me
I'll moonlight as a double-paned glass door.
I think I'll be an apple
my skin will toughen
and I'll rot away in an orchard
somewhere in Maine.
Maybe I'll slip inside the sun
and see what exactly a nuclear furnace is,
what colors burn brightest.

Or maybe, what's truest is;
this is the last time I think I can bear this.
After this, it's only me,
a wool sweater, a clever conversation,
lust and lovely linens
but nothing, ever again, approaching love.
I'll turn inward like a broken compass
and write and read and
slowly become Emily Dickinson.
It was all laid out long, long ago.
I'll wear black, instead, so people can tell us apart.