First among the poems I won't write today is the one about the girl who was pitied for being ugly but who turned out to be clever. The poet of this poem has a special insight about acne scars, but I am not that poet. Next is the poem for the depressed friend I haven't seen enough of lately. It says I'm sorry for being awkward about your depression, I was just feeling at that moment and not feeling into words. But why pick up the phone when you can send a text. Then there's the one about the way that terror disappears along with extreme heat, and twenty degree days open the pores like a light and easy moisturiser named something like January Breeze. It doesn't help, it doesn't help.  Nor the news-sheet poems made of torn up, clogged up language for tasks, rolls and rolls of them, covering walls and windows, but always peeling away as though sortable, insisting on being sorted, black and white, impasto, clammy, opaque.