It is June. I am tired of being brave.  

~ Anne Sexton





I wake in bed with a beard

and a new bra that acts like the old one.

A cloud in the window across the street

has both eyes covered with grey.


Rattles in the wind.


I want to peel its skin,

bow – an animal glowing in the sun,

but what if there’s something underneath?


The stalks of strawberries shine in the lamp light

cast shadows like spiders or dancers or pine trees

or candles. It’s the herbal sleeping pills - they give 

me half-changed dreams of a golden shoe I lost.


Yesterday at the party

James from the Wine Company

talked for 45 minutes about tiles

with the familiarity of a cold towel.

I watched the cannon of pink dressing gowns

in the window of the bar where we were paying $22 for a drink.

As we left James said, ‘She wants us to put in for a Disney tray,

but we already have two Disney trays!’



adding the same observation more than once

may result in undesirable behaviour.


It's Independence Day.

The NY Times tells me about some culture war that Christians will fight.

76 seagulls sharing one mailbox.

Look, I only subscribe until I subscribe.

Paying for anything else online is the absolute end

but prejudice requires me to assume an alien role,

partly by mouth.


I was born in bad times where I forgot

how to swim

and it doesn't matter

because on the beach three fellow sailors

cut into a tank half-buried in the water after a storm.


I go home and start a new diary.

Her name is Vanessa.

My co-star says

we can handle this type of investment.

Advises me to work hard.

This means exact strokes until tomorrow.


A mosquito flies between me

and the screen

with the words ALL SHIP AND TOW.

I'll spin the tweeting world slowly and wait and wait and wait

for someone

to like it.





Tired of being brave.

I wake up in bed with a cloud flying through it.

June. Both eyes covered with grey. 

I want to peel off my underneath.

The birds rattle me.

Beggars after a storm.

Water dreams have distribution,

exact strokes until tomorrow.


One arm outstretched 

the orator introduces a sailor with manacles.

A cannon of pink dressing gowns.

Stalks of strawberries.

He’s called Vanessa. 

Her name is James. 

We can handle this type of investment.,

if we watch the show to the end.


I turn to a half-buried lesson.

A mosquito advises me to work hard.

Forgot how to swim and it doesn't matter.

Skip the herbal pills sleeping.

Watch the advertisements to the end. 

I call the shots until tomorrow. 


When the ex arrives, welcome them like a migraine.



Footnote: this poem was created using the Between-the-action constraint as the starting point.