Tuesday, February 23, 2016

she wrote of the exhausting
even doomed work of poets in cafes
or serious writers being beaten to pieces
one letter one vowel at a time
at some point knowing too much
too much nerves to have nerve
to take at literature or lines or stanzas

here my pencil is dull
my pen is running out of ink
there are not enough pages
even then when i feel it is the end

i also feel like laughing

who makes it as far as a donkey
like me

in poverty i see
a wonderful star

over rooftops

it is perfect
no one else has it

it says write
my heart leaps

the pure white literary gods
in their mansions

are asleep


to Rosemary Tonks

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