Artist

I hurt my feet to come
here to this place outside the page
where you are now,
and it hurts
hurts to walk where I used to swim,

crawl this dirt where I used to fly,
talk these words, when
thoughts race in my head,
and be alive
when there was a place where in repose
I made my bones into
beautiful things.

But here now I will
play myself
act my art, and ply this trade
stolid in this three d form
existing in the life I made.

No mermaid I nor
fairy child
or special thing in poetic conceit,
I only pour my heart out neat,
to let you drink me dry
the undiluted why is I

might be medicinal,
or else Lethe for your too-
remembered self.

I recall myself too much, too.
Let me help you with you.