Monday, March 10, 2014

Like Rocks

The poet is finally at rest.  Half dead, his head
upon his arms upon his desk.
His eyes are bruised. Lids lead.  Mind rid
               at last
of memory.

Every dug up skeleton lays outside his window.
A garden of skulls.  Their revenge: a stoning.
Hurling every stupid word he summoned
      like rocks
through glass. Now, useless nuggets, they are
across his work space.
Empty but heavy.

He will wake to disarray.

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