I am not very smart, just smart enough to
Stop myself from squeaking out a cry for an explanation.
If it matters someone will break it down slowly with gesticulation.
I wish I was a genius like the boy who asked ‘what is the grass?’
Why do people smoke pot?
Is it really better than air?
They say to open up but you can’t just put the blood
Back. As soon as it can it runs.
Bandages and stitches hide the workers who patch the hole
But who pays them? I should kiss
Your skin. Maybe scars are
memorials remembering silent preservation.
Geniuses never worry about sex because it is
Beautiful and warm and they know the other genius understands exactly
What every push and pull means.
Connotations fall to the ground like clothes.
I’m baptised by the skin I fall into and
I’m afraid of God.
Words on pages still hold no meaning but
I read on. No one can misunderstand what the rope
Is for. Stand there and watch, tell me why
People smoke pot and talk about sex.
I’m too smart to believe in a savior
Who understands me.