Poem Draft

After (second draft)

Manuel labor of words 

not a color I can hide behind

habitual placement of “I”

in the poem

I am two, three, four today, Myles’ “not me-ness.”

Floating out further 

before searching the flounder for my guts

near the another surface and the deer live between freeway’s north and south.

What does it call this maelstrom of sound, or is it noise?

Anyway, run towards something. 

By tomorrow I want to be where neither of us have ever been 

I want to be hot and to drive in the horizon.