An Ought [This, An Ode to Bravery)

This
rolls on
through
When I stutter
I say, “dumb”
swallow
and, “come”

A slip,
naturally
A thought.
What
would
she?
How
would
they?
Can I? Should
—nobody likes
to be should on.
My poem
gets longer
My script
moves crook t
at about
the speed
of a book
of poems
This is
akin to the
pace of
ducks
fog, skateboards
& lust.
I move in
arrow showers
The bay
trickled on: tall