I hate being confessional in my poetry,
all those scabs ripped off and waved around
like a license to write or rant, all of it
quite scant in its poetical content. I want
to be invisible as the air I breathe, as silent
as the beating of a shrew's heart from 50 paces
off. I don't see the point of pulling off this
skin only to cut it up into little wordy shapes
to paste down onto a white page for your
Peeping Tom inspection. I hate being confessional
in poems or anything with my name hanging off it
like a genital wart, but lately I've the mind of a fat
caterpillar shitting out what it chews to let it fall
wherever--perhaps into your half-empty coffe cup
as you sit outside to enjoy the morning air.
