they are not you
they are not your eyes, your face
your polygraph.
the lines perhaps are real
I have touched and felt them move
one hundred times
when I watched you squat the flies.
all files have been deleted since
the troubadour of song came
belly fat. shape and form
on the edge of tricks
thin fingers on the sad bone\'s piccolo.
electric-candlelight his nemesis
his rack of lamb no stronger than
his treasure trove of coins believed now dead
his hunt for red. black nylon. oyster shell.
beneath the stairs
eggs-benedict a better tasting mood
now my poise becomes a veil. a crooked plum
with skin that tastes of something. nothing new
I am only here for the music and the yarn
now the black rook reels me in. a heaving carp.
by what design? a headstone for a heart?
or a poet laureate
all out of faith?