Broken Telegraph Lines

Stop. I’ve said too much

to you. Stop. Like smoke,

I hold traces: conversations,

finger tips along my arm.

Stop. I cannot. Stop.

Love crushed me. Stop.

Still you run rampant

through my poems. Stop.

For years without reply.

Stop. I want you still

To say something. Stop.

What vague answers

Can I give you? Stop.

Other than this. Stop.

(November 21, 2018)

Original Sin

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If I hold cliché in my hand

like an apple, will I fall

to its seduction? Dare I bite

the peach, perhaps an avocado,

or pursue the nubile temptress

dancing a bare finger’s tip

out of reach? It’s laughable

to think I might escape it.

The original roots still leach

the metaphor from the soil,

while I root about like a pig

snuffling for elusive truffles.

 

Each word I speak is mine alone;

each word I speak has been said before.

 

(July 28, 2018)