Annotations on a series of firsthand accounts

I wrote this with a quill. A quill motherfuckers. Sometimes I love christmas.

I was or
will choose to believe I was
on some lonely road outside Tokyo
watching snowmelt rise and sink
along paths cut in/I was or
want to believe I was
watching from some gilded window
as below me Paris in awe
began to chew away its own/I was or
would like to pretend I was
restless on waves holding
a candle over my page marking
tracks I'd/I was or
remember being told I was
sweating out nausea in deep trees
listening to a staring match
between/I was or
I know at least someone was
bending back a raven's wingbone
watching someone far away
sucking the end of the feather
waiting for ink

Another poem

Where does it say

                                    or did you just decide

that you alone of all those whose

            hearts too may seize and

            stutter

            can taste that   that air filtered free that

            hair clinging in tufts with        the effort of

            knowing          you alone

            can taste that then call it love?

Will you ever stop

                                    or will you scream till your neck’s paper and straw

without dropping your guard to

            let in even in

            tatters

            the hope that one day             there’ll

            be time for you too to lean in open

            your starved lips to those perfect      so unlike your own

because without them you’re             less everything that is you