by Chris Jansen

Like a car wreck with a plastic sheet.
Like the place to go where we might meet.
Like a bloody bandaid in the street

next to a penny,
two feathers,
a yellow burrette,
my mother’s unlived life,

I see,
I glow,
I go around.
I run.

And I derive my power from nothing.

Like the sun.



About the Poet: Chris Jansen is a recovering heroin addict. He lives in Athens, Georgia, where he teaches boxing and cares for a disinterested guinea pig named Poozybear.