This year, the poems come late at night
when I am lying in bed.
and when I sit to write them they say
you don't need to tell the internet THAT

here, at last, the gracious boundary.
everyplace else I'm bubbling over overshare
This year, weeping in political trainings
this year, confessing in mentoring
this year, rattling on and storming out in lover's bedrooms.
saturn's returning?
or it's the end of the something, the beginning of something else.

it's too much, I'm telling everyone
climate change hit my city and that should be enough.
the new waves of comfort guilt, my house is dry.
what a season to spend tracing the history that's been ripped from me
and watching all my shit boil over on someone patient enough to wait.

well, this is poems 5 until I don't know what
this is there's no wrong way, or next year
or new forms,
and poems no one has to write.