Last Poem in this Apartment

I am trying hard
to think of things
that stay in one place
and get better. A tree?
I am not a tree
Trees have almost
written all the poems
I cut myself against them
Nailing plywood down
on lower lines
to lay there, looking at porn
I’d leave my house at night
sometimes to look at porn in trees
Even when very young
I’d walk past a
retention pond of taggers
blowing their colorful
horned instruments
Their illegible, foam names
like those of the animals
Some of us have things
we don’t remember
choosing to be
These are the things I mean

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