poems scattered around the room
in my never ending fool's errand
as poet laureate of Watercolor's
perfect world of happy accidents.
We drool and weep out of context
but scratch a portrait of Sexton
dead in her car in the garage.
We copy Plath's ****** scene of
geese escaping winter to warmth.
We endure cures of our lobotomies.
Brilliant light was smothered.
Grey men 4 years old on knees.