Monday, October 07, 2019
WE COULD PLAY
We could play
at poetry
the way men
play at war,
except not
blood shed, it
would be stars
lost to us.
Warring poets
would darken
the sky, would
lose the light
which brightens
us, and soon
we would be
as cinders
are, clinkers
in the coal
stove, burned out,
heat failing
our last breath.
