This isn't the one

That’s a different poem that hums in my head

but this the one now I’ve got to write
don’t start that again, that dispossessed
wannabe swansong full stream midflight
that gets nowhere popsickles iced dead
between mighty maybes limp oversights
stick to now, stick to what’s got to be said
see to the other if everything’s alright
when the final dream’s cut, spliced and shed
like a reptile tail, pulsed, convulsed tight
in circles, looping the loops on itself
the animal tucked away out of sight.
Who gives a damn what can or can’t be helped
what plays out gently against the lobes of nights
the drumbeats in blood, the restless fevered bed
the sudden sobs in thin veins of light?
that’s a different poem, different its mesh
of rhymes and words cut free from black and white.