By CL Bledsoe

I wash enough things
to make me forget
my hands. I count

dogwood blossoms
until I’ve forgotten
how many times

I’ve started over.
I make a video in
the stairwell I just

cried in trying to
sell it to the French.
Offer the squirrels

outside the window
nuts until they pancake
on the glass. Then feel

strangely ashamed. Some
people who don’t
understand time think

it exists all at once.
The past is now.
The present is the past.

And the future is
something that happens
to other people, who

were better at planning
or just had more luck
than I ever did.

Stuff My Stupid Heart Likes by CL Bledsoe (co-author of and The Wild Word:

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