I attempt to write poetry
and preferably late at night.
There is no need to place
a rotting fruit on a table
or invoke the spirit of Calliope.
The rotating earth is quite enough
to help me focus on the task.
I begin by writing Someone Else’s Life
on the top of a sheet of paper.
I put an asterisk next to it;
then I try to remember footnotes
of someone else’s past.
I must tell you, I do not remove my clothes
like Billy, for it is much too cold
in my living room. Besides,
I do not write good love poems.
Neither do I remove my skin
or any essential organs. Instead,
I sit with my body whole, equal
to the sum of its parts,
while reading from my library
of favorite poets to create reverie.
When I feel the pull from the phantom self,
I write lickety-split until I back-pedal
after each spontaneous overflow
to re-read the first draft aloud.
Afterward, I fly fragments of poetry
(airplane style) to every corner of the room
and watch my cat chase after them.