Another Of Me Is Better At Titles

Another of me is
staring down a rainbow
and winning, if it can be called that.
Is populating the stars.
Is building a rocket,
another rocket.

Another of me is
not. But this is as it should be.
Stillborn. In the wings the ghost
waits for a body,
another body.

Another of me is
running beside, behind, wherever,
binding strings to ever-failing
hooks. Loss of feeling
but a step, a step,
another step.

Another of me is
scraping the sky’s square feet,
hand in setting concrete,
hand over the reins,
a taller, taller, taller, ever taller almost
another meter.

Another of me
holds the gun.
Centre target,
not to be outdone.
She tries, tries, tries,
the metal’s hot:
a new clip,
another shot.

Another of me
can’t hold it together. Ball of wax, blazing sun, line breaks
and it’s done. Words don’t make sense, senses don’t make words.
Poor translation. From the tongue to the tongue or the keyboard.
Either way, there is no way. There must be a way. Not this way.
Another way.

Another of me
wrote is all down and forgot it.
Better to say what passes for nothing.
How are you – how about this weather! – how’re the dogs –
could have done without that snow – Leafs are out of the playoffs –
did you get that thing you were looking for – are you slowly dying –
but afraid to tell anyone that you’re slowly dying –
are you a prison unto yourself full of words that must one day tumble out –
will they tumble out of you into a stranger –
will they break free one day –
my goodness that traffic –
should have taken the 403 –
doing well – another dollar
another day.

Another is me
looks back at you. He asks,
“What have you read? What does it mean?”
And you say,
“It means what it means to me.”
He is frightfully angry because you
are wrong. Wrong!
But there’s nothing he
can do about it but write
another one.