Board me and say,
“You don’t have what it takes.”
I don’t: so jump ship, ride waves to sullen coves
Of ancient thoughts held-sorry by verdant glades.
The departed rave and marry sight to curves;
But, drink piston oil silent, to keep eyes greased.
And so it is: so girls play sandbox games with hearts;
Oily black hands gather grains to wet, raw parts.
In the end:
A clamor for words, as day bleeds ink into night;
Very slowly, I write—the remains lie obedient
On paper, for me—spread as cracked lips, full
Of their dark poetry—. As promised, I wrote—
a poem smeared with the balm of hours.