To Harold Bloom, with regards


Time was once upon the open road
spent on pressing solace into
solitude. Charred grass, no money,
breeze humid as the breath of God.

We’ve read the novels, pored over pages
with Intent, as if these words were seeds
within a pomegranate – waiting for our
hands, nails, tongue, teeth.

Do you too yearn for the aptitude
to say something again and say it still?
We are not our writers.

More platitude than Plath,
we sit at desk, condense,
leave Jason impassive to the
poison of our siren songs –

Or so I’ve heard them say.
They that have grown one with the dust
under their armchairs quiver
at our possibility. And so, it passes.


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