by Kyle Harvey

“To be born a transcendental brilliant shattered star.”
–Seth Kauffman, Desert Etiquette

To be born real and/or complex–
maybe or maybe not so much rare         

but rather hard to show. I felt for my face
my chest, soft parts, my sadness–

all still here. All, still here. Still
something is missing and it feels

like something more than a little.
Forbes, the leading voice on things

of this nature, obviously, declares a myth
of sadness and depression’s synonymy

which, of course, is a pile of shit.
I have never heard anyone say

nor said myself, I’m just so happy
I could kill myself. Why not? At best

it’s difficult to come to terms with
ourselves.  At best we hope to sing

through the sky, with any luck
leaving a brilliant tailing behind.

Kyle Harvey is the editor of Fruita Pulp. His first collection of poems Hyacinth (Lithic Press 2013) was a finalist for the Colorado Book Award and his poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in American Life in Poetry, Electric Cereal, Fat City Review, Heavy Feather Review, HOUSEGUEST, Mama Liberada, Metatron, Ossuary Whispers, Pilgrimage, Reality Hands, SHAMPOO and SP CE. His new serial poem, July, was recently published by Lithic Press.