| bad
poem |
|
so let's not call
it poetry
that word so far from dirt, sweat,
birdchirp and betrayal
you try to forget in flowers
but they bubble up yellow
absolute fragility - we say -
but for the moment, solid,
a dependable thing in the world
moreso than this man
who never understood
enough to stop being a boy -
miserable fate to have
never grown enough
and it's his own damn fault -
a preference for evasion
no flower facing the sun or fog
straight on - he's resisting
the morning dread and awake
now to pass the day running
from love that had never -
he thought - been possible
proud enough to have made something
to have lost everything
to a sudden revelation,
his own heart is rotten
with spite and a childish envy
of everything he should have done
his own heart is less possible
than dirt |