Poetry

Since my ash has 
blown in your mirror 
I am warming up to your surrogacy. 
 
Too much deep, 
expansive cleavage. I am climbing 
 
down a canyon. 
 
The phoenix: 
finds the water― 
in your eyes. 
 
Writes a funeral. 
 
No punctuation, the 
unwritten poet, 
will not last the night. 
 
I am spelling out 
the grief of the lonely man on 
the deserted road, talking 
incoherently.