Poets are burning
In the closets of ruined cities
Or slumped against urinals in bars
Half dreaming
Or seated,smoking,on the curbside
Tossing ash on the concrete
Knowing that
The chords of their throats
Have been broken,
The tongues have been cut
From the heads of the prophets,
The cockerels no longer
Rebuke the dawn
For the burning of noon
YOU ARE READING
Small Silver Fish
PoetryA growing work of poetic exploration,this small volume explores life long struggles of a poet groping for evolution.
