Has the potion of poesy
been processed out by my liver?
Maybe I ****** it out with last weeks whiskey,
or forgot to sprinkle it
over my frozen "meals for two,"
which always end up as a meal for one.
Has the season changed so much
that the wind carried it away?
The bees cannot find its pollen to spread,
and I cannot smell it
drifting through the complex...

What comes next? What comes?
Life after poetry,
do you scatter,
dissolving, dispersing energy?
Do you matter,
to the Earth, the air, the galaxy?
Or do you slip into an early routine,
forget the touch, the taste,
the sound of words
bouncing in your mouth?

Can you be reborn, reincarnated
as something new, something with assonance,
consonance, brilliance and shine?
Can I somehow get back,
back,
please come back
gentle poesy,
gently rhyme,

be mine?