Poetry, the effectual lover. She will leave you
for your brother;
drapes torn, while the taste of her is
still on your tongue.
Poetry knows your lies,
makes you believe.
Poetry is a plastic bag in the wind against August.
It is the unkept self in the morning;
with nothing to do but rhyme.
It is the weed pushing, drawing air
deep into its lungs, corrupting,
assuming parking lots.
Poetry makes love in the dark after fucking all day.
It will lame you, lead you,
find your most intimate words,
then leave you.
Poetry is the blind man singing beyond his sight,
a song made for everyone-
and some will not understand.