Move over incompetence-
That’s my seat.  

We’ll have tea.  The herbal variety.
And talk about my listless absence
over rosehips and peppermint.

It has been a long road trip
on awkward interstates,
since I have eaten poetry.
It tastes tangy on my tongue-
tahini and tap water,
like salad dressing gone south.  

I went south, since last we spoke.  
I cry still for the colors,
the blues and greens that burned my eyes
and transfigured my palette.
The mountains spoke foreign languages
but blessed me with new ears to hear,
but I did not record their tales.

I sit now trying to catch a shimmer of their dialect
but I am full of empty English.

I repent now,
of my caustic neglect,
to the nymphs of creative order—
and humbly bow myself to the sword of
articulated
chaos.