I liked us better
When we didn't speak
When our hate was silent
And I could hate in peace
Now words sprout from your lips
Like mold and dicease
Call it my fault for asking
How have you been?

Lately
I don’t feel close
to poetry.

It feels elusive.
Unfamiliar.
Once it spoke to me.
But now it’s mute.

It sits back
and doesn’t look
at me.

If I call out
it doesn’t hear.

Lately poetry is
like that demon
I used to want
to reappear.