And
I bleed
Is poetry the cure or the
disease?
Across the computer screen I
chart my findings
Digging up the past dredged
up my own remains.
This breathing skim of
painted fantasy
That melts my room to myth,
This mural, friends,
These bits and pieces of
mosaic days
Portray me by stealth
Unwinding myself, ourselves:
You write a poem meant to be
mythical,
You strike a pose somewhat
remote,
Construct a cardboard
figure-sp
Some bloody condensation of
the air
Seeps to its veins, you
slash her
next
