Scrapbook

Kim Addonizio

This is me, depressed out of my mind, 

 frailing the banjo, spilling red wine 

on the white 

 king-sized 

luckily-hotel's-and-not-my-

 goose down comforter, this is me 

walking and waxing nostalgic through the girlish shadows 

 of tall palm trees, the déjà vus 

flying through the scene 

 suddenly, like those three 

unnameable and therefore beautiful white birds. 

 This is me as a slowly-tearing-itself-apart cloud 

and marveling 

 at a fire palely and flamily 

emerging from a bowl, wavering 

 up through stones of cobalt glass. The air 

wavers back. This is me in love 

 with the beauty of blue glass in flames, this is me on drugs 

prescribed by my doctor 

 as I try once more 

to sneak into night's closely guarded city, 

 my hollow horse ready 

to wreak my demons and Blue Morphos 

 on the citizens of my sleep. I am most 

myself when flashing rapidly 

 my iridescent wings, drinking 

the juice of fallen fruit. Then again 

 look for me under your bed 

where the ugly premodern vampires 

 still hide. The undead and I are lying 

in wait. We are very interested in you 

 though this is still me. We are unstable and true. 

We believe in the one-ton rose 

 and the displaced toilet equally. Our blues 

assume you understand 

 not much, and try to be alive, just as we do, 

and that it may be helpful to hold the hand 

 of someone as lost as you.