I decided  
to not decide  
to write  
a poem.  

I lie sideways 
on my mind 
and watch 
word-animals roam.  

Their strong smells. 

Their unlikely cohabitation. 

A white herd of gerunds. 

The slow cloud of a mass noun. 

The smelly beatitudes 
of subjunctives 
like flamboyances  
of flamingos.  

Suddenly a noun 
sprints after 
an adjective 
and catches it  
by the nape.  

To play 
to kill 
or to make  
love?  

It eats it. 

In the flattened sunset 
of my procrastination 
a poem 
starts writing itself. 

__

The Worchester Review, November, 2026