Thirty-six syllables stretched in a windowpane and we shall call
A poem on gods raining like
meat sausages from the sky black with feathers
In this poem there aren’t sugar spilled mouths, pop candy, and sea beaches.
Here are wrecked man’s hand like a clock tower, placing symphonies on their
Here is the poem’s throat tired of revolution and we are not picking ourselves up this time.
In this poem
I am sorry.
I could have forgiven myself rather than others
There is hunger in the flesh and the poetry isn’t stretched in the rhythm today.
God is breathless.
There are ice cubes in between teeth and for hands a pair of tongs, you are walking in a park where people are headless, they have gathered to share their gloom.
But this time it’s all yours the journal that you are hiding under your sweater.