Bourgeois Poet

“C’mon, I’ll buy
you a drink.”

& these encountered voices.  “The old sea, the woods,
the prancing beast of memory signifying nothing.
& snow that cracks the heart of stone: a vessel of
circular visions stirring dead dust & undefining.

“Also your exotic speech.  Who understands your battered
dirge:  wounded deer that solitarily limps to its lair
to stomp & rage on the helpless ferms, then settle
on the earth to bleat, to piss, to slobber & to dream.

“Also, if by hands or whatever craft you’ve bewitched
us blinded fools reeling at the crack of a brittle whip:
O the hour has struck & your words must lie to sleep.”

Always the hunchback hisses:  “It’s not so much the flair
for closing tight the rotten door & insanely grieving
as the fear that love defines a hate & hurt is never rare.”

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