A meditation on monoxide
The siren’s singing bowl
Ear drum burst and a voice lost to concrete dust
The roads are littered with writers
Dead from the onset of spring
Poems half-written lay crumpled beside curb stone
Blown along by the final winter breeze
Pushing them down drains on its way out of town
And as magnets repel one another
Heat pushes instinct away
Blue sky raising dead spirits
Somewhere to lay heavy head supported now
By broken neck
How happy a world
A distinct lack of madness as interest dissipates
Interest in anything out there in the gleam
All so clean and naked
Truthful and honest and painfully dull
As
The summer threatens without storm
Just more yellow
More tomorrow
When
Really
Hearts seek out the nourishment of bones packed in ice
Sinew as lichen for the carnivore poets
who wander the landscape seeking darkness and thunder.
The roads are littered with writers
Dead from the onset of spring
And there I lay alongside
Them.