these days I am writing poems

with my back to my boyfriend

picking at my fingernails until they hurt

shuffling clauses. growing varicose veins

like poor man’s tattoos. ruining

my eyesight. Losing myself

in research about coal mines. I hate

coal mines. Being underground

is the opposite of what I want. I dig

further, hoping to find something

flammable, a seam that will catch

fire and unzip the world, make it

less life like, less fucking poetic.