Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Friday, September 11, 2020


No sonnet sits upon this place to make

a little sense from senselessness, no
poem dances out the poison, shimmy shake
The Tarantella is not needed her, so

too the military march, there is no poem

standing here, upon this moving mark
And so abandons pages, forgiveness, and pain
And carry all the things I might have heark-
ened in my brain, I let it all remain

I shattered up the rhyme scheme because no poem

is here, just scattering denials and words
that scatter into more words and a bit absurd
How we just line things up and say the words
And pretend that you can hear me speaking the absurd

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