Brett Fletcher Lauer
Poem to Help Me Help You

When asleep I trusted you
not to run off with the first
ecologist; to relinquish doubt
and watch over me languishing 

like a mediocre gimp when 
your prints are what actively 

marked my broken instruments 
detecting half-tones between

land and ocean. Gray patches
spread and actions conducted 

relieved in a sense with a nostalgic 
piece of lint placed in a bell-jar 

and titled Snowstorm from our 
Window on Union Street. Unable 

to return home, sadness can
be transformed into self interest

others admire while away from me 
on this side of the mountain 

I didn’t feel the seismic activity 
sometimes shaking, aloof to 

consent and displacing ground. 
When asleep waves move through 

the earth’s crust. Let’s not make 
any more of it, the dangerous 

applications to a private life, 
various stakeholders affected. 

Take it easy, even the scientific 
method is subjective and 

temporary.  Apparently, we are 
born this way, operating at a loss 

over the course of a night, over 
the course of a single sleep, 

a procedure replays corridor 
gossip, household knowledge

and signals are interrupted 
and we wake with a zeal to study 

honeybees and the altering climate. 
Henceforth I blame you for the 

ka-bang, the new restlessness,  
the rush for gold in due course 

degraded in form. Let’s not make 
much more of lost time

compressed. It is impossible
to record. As to the measure 

of martyrdom or myth, a hunger 
whorishly uncontrolled defeats 

itself into loving like a whore. 
I’m not supposed to talk. But 

I could have, should have, and will.

Found In Volume 39, No. 03
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  • Brett Fletcher Lauer
Brett Fletcher Lauer
About the Author

Brett Fletcher Lauer is the Managing Director of the Poetry Society of America and a poetry editor at A Public Space. His poems have appeared in Boston ReviewFenceTin House and elsewhere. He lives in Brooklyn.