there's a reason 98% of my poetry posts come from this man.

that woman the rain bore off.

if i knew where
i was going next,
i wouldn't be taking so many
naps,
or reading all these books,
trying to divine my future
in pillow cases
and stitched book bindings,
lost in the small decisions
of each day,
only a little bit numb.

i am the inevitable wanderer
the girl who always says
goodbye,
but never knows
how to leave.

(no subject)

Venus

Throat aching from the sight of you.

A city in the distance
domed, fluted, incoherent blur
of muted light from detached stars
whose glow approaches the edge of darkness
As if to dip their feet in the cold
silence before withdrawing,
shuddering into flinty discontent.

If only
I could map out the lines of your jaw with my finger
I would finger the short hair behind your ear
I should know how to say

the light is you.

Language is better than reality.

Today I heard my favorite poet, Billy Collins, read on campus. It was like going home--going to readings always reminds me of who I really am. Besides getting to hear him read his fabulousness, I also got to meet him and have him sign my copy of Nine Horses (the picture on the left should be flipped. It says: "To Rachel--Billy Collins"). I'm pretty sure he recognized me as a true fan because he smiled when he saw what I wanted him to sign--everyone else had copies of Sailing Alone Around the Room that they were selling at the reading.

To inspire you to start reading more of him, here's one of my favorite poems from Nine Horses:

Night Letter to the Reader

I get up from the tangled bed and go outside,
a bird leaving its nest,
a snail taking a holiday from its shell,

but only to stand on the lawn,
an ordinary insomniac
amid the growth systems of garden and woods.

If I were younger, I might be thinking
about something I heard at a party,
about an unusual car,

or the press of Saturday night,
but as it is, I am simply conscious,
an animal in pajamas,

sensing only the pale humidity
of the night and the slight zephyrs
that stir the tops of the trees.

The dog has followed me out
and stands a little ahead,
her nose lifted as if she were inhaling

the tall white flowers,
visible tonight in the darkened garden,
and there was something else I wanted to tell you,

something about the warm orange light
in the windows of the house,
but now I am wondering if you are even listening

and why I bother to tell you these things
that will never make a difference,
flecks of ash, tiny chips of ice.

But this is all I want to do--
tell you that up in the woods
a few night birds were calling,

the grass was cold and wet on my bare feet,
and that at one point, the moon,
looking like the top of Shakespeare's

famous forehead,
appeared, quite unexpectedly,
illuminating a band of moving clouds.