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a new poem

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The spirit cannot be governed. It gathers. 
Rising from the midnight of the mind.
Everything inside the day hurts you. 
Everything inside the day goes away. 
It was like putting your hand through 
a part of the sky no one touches. 
Alone in the dress rehearsal for death. 
You wore solely a scent. 
The only poverty is the poverty in fear
which is a choice, not inheritance. 
Though you watched as so many 
pressed their heads to the glass 
to figure out what you were. 
I would have let you be anything,
the voice said. I would have dressed you 
but all you wanted was to undress. 
It was somewhere toward the beginning 
middle. It was so warm. The bloody 
day pumping through the body.
The only poverty is the poverty in fear. 

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