Friday, December 4, 2020


 Poem #17

My poems have too many trees without leaves

Like I live in a suspended place

Where it’s always autumn,

Not completely dead but never in bloom.

These poems are too much 

Like day after blizzard slush.

No longer a powdery snow

And the last thing to slake my thirst

Here’s a meal when you already ate.

Here’s a warm coat when the fire’s been lit.

My halfway love is an incomplete verse;

A dollar short and half a day too late.


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