"starrier" poems
Your analyst once called you a wretch
and told you to leave.
You say you get
“caught up in the moment” but really
you are morphing in disarray –
poet to death-marker, undertaker to toddler;
it’s boring and you accept that.
What you lack in understanding
you make up for in crushed leaves.
Like a tractor-trailor in the Bronze Age,
you are out of place.
But the sky is starrier than ever
so you feel okay
when the wind hits your eyes.
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 1:51 PM UTC