Pockmarks

“Oh, lord”

and

discarded dreams—

a few words

left in the margins

like moans,

a few tragedies

lying around

like screams.

 

I wake…so sorry,

and yet

so much more.

 

Lifetime from now,

I’ll think it over,

I’ll linger on,

swollen for her,

leaking for others.

 

She’s gone. A poem.

A misbegotten lover.

 

I’m here. A poem.

A forgotten shred of loose-leaf paper.

 

Wet, and discarded, as

dreams sometimes shiver—

 

“Oh, lord.”

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