The last time I did, my reflection twitched, glitched, distorted.
A bug? A body? A burden?
I’m dreaming of a white
Christmas on the road to
A desert golf course
Is not the literary mind
, in sum , defiant ?
they took their music and the
Feeling that they’d be
seventeen forever
26 and two days counting;
Didn’t even have the glory of 27,
Just a halfway thought-out header
That read, “Showed Promise.”
I equate religion
with the smooth circling
of these fish
through recycled waters.
Between trysts you toil,
knowing you aren’t
her only one.
And now every time you try to write a poem,
it feels like a
eulogy.