That everything’s inevitable.
That fate is whatever has already happened.
The brain, which is as elemental, as sane, as the rest of the processing universe is.
In this world, I am the surest thing.
Scrunched-up arms, folded legs, lovely destitute eyes.
Please insert your spare coins.
I am filling them up.
Please insert your spare vision, your vigor, your vim.
But yet, I am a vatic one.
As vatic as the Vatican.
In the temper and the tantrum, in the well-kept arboretum
I am waiting, like an animal,
Here’s a nifty little poem by a poet I just discovered. I’m not really sure what I think of her yet, but I sure admire her tight language. I like the way this poem reads. It’s interesting. I don’t really know what to make of the whole thing yet – then again, I’ve only read it a couple times, just now, so give me a while.
Still, I can’t help but love those last two lines. That’s what sold me on the whole thing, those last two line: “I am waiting, like an animal, / For poetry.”