Friday, November 9

The Death of

not flower, a weed
—can from a weed flowers grow?
or my stardust wasted

though thou may have love’s
metal band; that joyous luckily!

sing I sincerest alone under midnight’s gaze

not an engineer, poet, a streetlight,
eagle a blast
a well-timed 25 year old ejaculation

(& now I’m here
I wish I was brave like
a man gutting a fish)
hello; yet sleeping
wish I was—forget brief
gimme all once and,

hold me here
count me out
starting when ten n still going
still maintaining
no
guts
no parade
no sweet wifely epitaph
upon lingers my grave


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