[[“What’s in My Journal” by William Stafford, from Crossing Unmarked Snow. © University of Michigan Press. From Writer’s Almanac. Reprinted without permission. Considering how ill-respected poetry is in the eyes of the common man, what broke-ass poet in his right mind would sue someone who was a fan of his work, unless it was being sold for profit? This reminded me of collage.]]
What’s in My Journal
Odd things, like a button drawer. Mean
Things, fishhooks, barbs in your hand.
But marbles too. A genius for being agreeable.
Junkyard crucifixes, voluptuous
discards. Space for knickknacks, and for
Alaska. Evidence to hang me, or to beatify.
Clues that lead nowhere, that never connected
anyway. Deliberate obfuscation, the kind
that takes genius. Chasms in character.
Loud omissions. Mornings that yawn above
a new grave. Pages you know exist
but you can't find them. Someone's terribly
inevitable life story, maybe mine.