a reminder

for the present

i try to remind myself that poetry
can be made of anything.

all that bullshit
that poetry already exists 
and you just have to look for it–

i mean sure, yeah, we can look for metaphors
in fire that consumes everything or
in government that kills ceaselessly but

i’m not seeing or hearing or tasting or smelling or feeling
any metaphors. 
not even bad ones.

i try to remind myself that poetry
will still be there; when we’re ready

we can make poetry
out of a shape
of a shadow
on a bedroom wall.