Read a poem by another poet written
on the same day:

a faraway star

receding into the background
as if it could have been
enough or too much
the light grainy, pocked
or the lack of, lifting
in particles from somewhere else

indications subsequently denied
and the voice of my mother
flat and reasonable
only with difficulty is it denied

the depths, the vastness, the adolescence
was it like that—?
deep? vast? adolescent?—
elasticity sonically reinvented
(some sort of festival) and the table
sagged under the weight
of salt and conversation

in the night one tends to
wonder, tempted by the shadow
of a reflection into hearing
the paltry traffic as a water,
rented, if you will, to protect
the assets no one had a right
to and for that reason, spin
slow, against the allegation
or dosey-do, that much more
adamant, as if to say i
love you instead.