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Fairy Tale Endings

from an untitled serial poem (2)

tufts of dark fur

scraps of red cloth

broken glasses pools

of wine the remnants

of someone’s meal

are splashed across

the cottage like blood

on a butcher’s apron

she is not here

neither is he

one fled

one’s dead

birds hop and sing

on the window sill

a family of rabbits

nibble grass

along the path

the door lies shattered

on the ground

dry splinters of wood

punctuate the grass

with unvoiced cliches

(January 3, 2020)

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)