Two Poems (Dear Saint Theresa)

Dear Saint Theresa,

Be the good enough

baby. The Good Enough

Mother, actually. You don’t need

to parent self. You can

just be. Today, filmed

thyself. Walked through

Branches. Brechtian

branch dance. I danced

then ran. Socks

Dripping. The cold came in,

so I came on. On the trails

to the observatory trails, I saw

the light of noon. I saw the wire

dance. And myself: there I there.

Dear Saint Theresa,

after Merrill Moore

Same day: shower

I decided—derided

to be the good enough

Me. There’s no thing

Better than being good

enough. I pat

Myself on back, girl

in mirror saw me, as I

had my big realization, naked,

we consummated

Something there. In the image

of the eye, we saw anew:

Image. It seeks a spot

to image itself whole. I like

when I use image as a verb

and someone I hate doesn’t

know the possibility of

its verbiage. Herbs, girls,

Everything is coming

together fast. Spring

is fast. The spring time

wants you—better. And harder

to get better when you. And hard

to get better. And hard.

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