Apparently unresolved

is it a game of waiting. already with the -ing. what about the way that I talk, that I struggle to ever translate that right into a poem. that I have two minds, three minds, four finds. learned the tigers mouth in the park.

I submitted some work to four journals last month. everyone but one has gotten back to me. stack the refusals, the “we have to decline,” not that I see this as failure, just repetitive.

to keep focus. there is tomorrow and then there is not. left behind illegible full journals, varying in size and style over the years. if writing were like breath, in and out, this is the closest I am to it then, here, exhaling words.

the way I start the day determines how I end it or how I end it determines how I start the next one. in between period. between work, between projects, between careers. but, it is summer, the days are long and I am happy.

the last few poems I have put together don’t feel personal, feel like I am arranging the parts without realizing anything, floating dabs of color. there are combinations of lines I have enjoyed, I will go back through and see.