Playing in the street. You never believe
That. There's nothing wild as that in here.
You find yourself. Saying things. What
You didn't. Wouldn't. Vast & scary nouns.
Saying things is not a poem because you
Want one that isn't that. Isn't flat for
This crude unexceptionality. Not
Even a rhyming. Beatless as something
You can't name right now. Because.
You are preoccupied with fire that's
Brought no light but went off sadly boyish
As you were. Frightened that it. That you
Might be mad after all. What then. What.
To see this smallness as the smallest.
Mad. Sensible not smart not. Ever enough.
Me talking back turning around. You.
For reassurance. For our reinsurance.
Which is not genius but human or in here.