the poet ponders whilst
a terrorists or many, are at work in the corner with their newest configuration of sevens and cobwebs,
downing the next jet is only a matter of time, if not flies
and swallows
I’ve just returned from a house visit, with matches and gasoline.
the poet might want to run home. It drips.
If you wanted something to extinguish, I’d let you use my verse
your your your
but poetry stopped stare and closed mouth.
your your your
it’s sour. enflamed sour so sour it wilts wisdom of hoarfrosts remained behind “stop, save yourselves,” on the pane
This, it’s determined, gave a voice to the flames. And fed they were
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