The Poet


The Poet

Possessed by a tropic catatonia, he stares like a severed head,
Pulled in and pushed out of narcoleptic lapses. His hair drifts out in the process,
Serpentine. His hands now hide his face like a seraph’s last pair of wings,
In terror at all these soft-still ash-drafts around him, pulled plates of wings hatched
By layers of revisions and slashes of surrender. They lie apart like shock-toppled buildings.

In this line of work you need something you can always feel as you lean out the words;
A blanket cloaked over like a bath of sunlight or the intimate darkness of the grave.
In the ever-present pauses of a wide, wide sea he crawls like a crustacean in molt.


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