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

Far too much business.
Internal and external
doings. Goings on
and on.

Asking and telling and
predicting, so much
spewing from one body.

Do you read me?

What is it with all
this stuff, and always
writing for the other.

What do I look like
to you? A pushover?
an innocent? A deck of
playing cards?

I may have something to
teach you, if you
can stand it.

Be gentle she said.
Go lightly. Enough
with the gesturing
and sermon's on your
cultural displacement.