on euphoria

on a sheet of paper, whiter than snow:

tell me what you think of me

and I’ll delight in what I think of you

cocked and dressed in a showered maroon

or bathed and blanketed in a satin type blue

I am from a broken town on a tight-lipped map

written on token beaches and battered teeth, i

cannot help but wonder why or how

poetry turned blindness into a blessing.

battered and blighted and bruised, I feel

a sting of complacency, almost—

it doesn’t make sense how I ache to ache

how I perceive my flight as an error of my own

—as my own transgression

with an implication of possibility when the sky knows

(oh, how it knows):

I did not fathom a rip such as this.