how to write a poem

Sleep in a room that’s door opens to the outside and have your feet facing the wall. You might slip out or you might be pulled out but there’d be a fight first. There’s always a fight first, he told me. Just like in elementary when the popular girl made you fall in front of the boy you liked so you cried in the last stall on the right of the second floor gymnasium bathroom.  “God loves you” and sketches of crosses on a hillside watching you weep because graffiti at that age meant evangelism not conversion. It was in the moment when you cut the snowflakes out of printer paper and pasted them on the window this winter. Something changed that winter that caused the tenants of building to stop sleeping.  A steeping-feeling fell over the brick building on the edge of the city that told them it wasn’t time to go just yet but it wasn’t their decision anyway. There was more to be extracted no matter how painful the squeezing, tamping, smashing.  Try king cobras, love affairs, or the comet that sat glowing and burning a hole in the backyard between the trampoline and your house. You saw it when you descended the stairs. Try the stuff of your dreams. The red-head with a cleft lip told me the pile of carrots were the his treasure trove and he slept next to the outside door to guard them so I started with that.