I
I remember this poet
that used to spin me
in an endless gaze
turning yield signs
into spiral shells
of poetic vanity
I went back for
a recent rendering
and he was stuck
with old disguises
while hammering
the same tired whores
II
You know the kind
where the river is dead
the sky is still
and our sun has turned
silver
He forgot to pay her
I suppose
Much like
his dried up stories
living on dust
and antique accolades
he lost the race
while quietly
licking himself
at stop signs
III
Praise never cums
with epiphanies
just virgin headstones
dead before
turning the next page
that higher price
of humility
Deep mirrors
and marvelous flesh
was his language then
the last poem I read
he rhymed love
with above
maybe
he did find
a new whore
Adding your comment:
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Meg
