Prose & Poetry

You don’t even deserve a poem,yet here I am.I wouldn’t call it a poem.It’s a blade

This isn’t a drinking song nor a song about drinking but a song written while drinking,

I would place flowers at your feet water you with compliments and pull the moon from

Her love for me is on a diet Small and restricted Ashamed in its existence When

A seacliff. Dark. Haunted even. But what’s that perched atop? A form. White, not white like

As a boy I played In the yard on summer days; Laughter guided me. Then dad

Beady is the weed that grows             where I tried wildflowers instead of lawn for you