>>

Nate Pritts

Talk-Talk

It's time to sink or swim, put up or shut up,
but here's that early morning light again

to work its way into my brain, that mess
of tangles I keep sheltered in my head,

& my legs are bending now because I'm a man
sitting on a bench & sore uncertain

if the resolute will is what's called for,
wondering too if the clouds are the ones

that have it figured out, white sheen
tending gray even today, in this, with me.

Beyond the shadow, a shadow.
Just in the nick of time, I realize the ache

I've been feeling is a lingering shot in the arm
that shot itself out, the world set afire

then quietly quelled. Believe it or not, I disbelieve
a lot. I don't think you're even listening

though I write you poem after poem, O you
whoever you are. When I travel, I move

off the beaten path; I flap past clouds.
I am my own soul, buoyant, & all this talk-talk

can't stop me from knowing I'll float or drop.