nonsense

i have not written poetry in quite a while

at least not like this
emptying myself out
like a lunchbox
a purple
backpack full of
crayons a jar full of
water and
old petals that
needs to be
washed

pouring myself out (into
a glass/i popped my first
champagne bottle the other day
and pressed my palm
against the cork
told to brace for pressure
waiting for the pop
and when it
came a shocked look
on my face/into a river
will i flow among the
souls of others, where will
you be?)