Monday, October 07, 2019


We could play
at poetry
the way men

play at war,
except not
blood shed, it

would be stars
lost to us.
Warring poets

would darken
the sky, would
lose the light

which brightens
us, and soon
we would be

as cinders
are, clinkers
in the coal

stove, burned out,
heat failing
our last breath.

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