Exile    poems by Matthew Freeman February 2021


I pray that when I go back
to the Loop and U City
and see my wise young therapist
she lets us
pick up where we left off
with all that Jungian stuff and
the Inflation and Individuation

and especially the smell of diesel
at the nearby bus terminal and bright dimes
on the ground and signs on the
light poles and people
trying so hard to tell me something
and my God State Delusion
which is my one big contribution

and the great big stone spiral which
I’m either ascending or descending
with my gold guitar and urgent note
to Lesbia explaining that I heard that
poems aren’t really made up of words.

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