More than most people
I find myself in beautiful places
Places worthy of instagramming
And it’s here that I do
My worst work
Not because Whitman already covered it
Or because it is too vast
But because it’s too simple
To write a poem about

I am clear about how the canyon makes me feel
And about the fog
Rolling in over the pine

I am clear that the big, hollow howl in me
Is a reason to be alive

But it’s moments like the one happening right now
That really confound

You are getting out of my car
In your black jacket
It’s cold
And something is wrong
But you won’t say what

This is where the really difficult poetry begins

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