I might have fucked up
my Rorschach.
By seeing so many blots
and patches and pieces.
All of them
treasonous to the
spaces I used to believe
were the safest.
A lot of poetry is distant,
sitting by the side of the road,
in a cold wind.
A lot of photographs are vibrant,
pastels no longer quiet,
larger than life and as violent
as the warmth of the body.
I might have been
up all night
second guessing black
and white butterflies.