Wednesday, March 14, 2018

Confessional Lyric

Poets make good warning tales
And lousy human beings.
When we’re not tipping from boats,
Trying to embrace the moon,

Sticking our heads in ovens,
Rolling in corn ricks,
Lurking around ponds
To catch the splash of a frog,

We’re supporting lost causes
Or praising evil tyrants.
At our worst we’re words
Without music or stories

Or reasons, the brittle skins
Of lisping snakes, rid of hips,
The flimsy wisps of life’s next
Ghosts, consolidated mists.

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