Age surpasses my writing:
A gold tire,
Unextinguished.
Things keep
Dying and living--
Sleeping,
Awakening,
With broad
Chests,
Engorged,
And
Reaching for
Ripe sunlight.
My dialect keeps
Capitalizing itself for
Anything and everyone.
I will be about nothing.
I will be about everything.
I will be the purple satin
That contrasts the
Static backdrop
Since my
Final,
My
Embellished
May.
Poet.
She is not happening here;
Not emerging from the sand
With some
Erect
Hope.
I do not feel the writhing.
I do not feel the brain bubbles,
The suckling,
The guzzling in my throat.
I don't feel her fizzy spatter
On my writer's lobe.
Not yet.
Dear Sylvia,
I am still a
Writer.
Write?
