could a Heart made of Poetry
ever die ; into the ferocious
tied-lips of Life?
as a free bird —
poets are c l i ng
to me dear and sir:
as a bird
as life washed me clean
so warm and dry ; cleansing all
of the bluish wine-stains
and splattering’s of vomit,
we never lost the touch
that meant to mean so much
–dying embers of deliriums
and grinding rhythms of my
Love; i came to know the
skies and even the rock below
; i know the evening, and like
rising Phoenix of Spirit
as stress and fear roll back
as waves into the distances —
their eyes crying regretful
tears.

:: 07132020 ::