The images are like old friends
I no longer have enough in common with.
“Three-sweatered like a crusted pine,”
“The fisherman scent of imagined waves,”
“He shakes his cock like a tired flag.”
I pretend I wouldn’t recognize them
on a dark street, even with a gang
of marching nationalist editors
gaining on me from behind,
red pencils sharpened to pin accuracy.
And it was always night in these young poems
–“night is evening’s secret,”
“a myth about a night world,”
“we wait for night and night-
feeding bass”–as if daylight
were owned by prose
and of little interest
there was no bourbon in it.
And what did the young man know about love
–“too simple for listeners, too difficult for art”–
that now he wouldn’t cut back
until the part about how hard it is
was left to extend its bare branch
into the winter sky?
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 4.
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