I wash my time in poetry
sawed words thrown in stacks of haste
Junk piles of rusted memory
in the construction of youth, its sawdust waste
Broken weathered dreams
splitting debris about an illusion
time\'s rot of constructed schemes
leftover emotional confusion
In youth, my time pockets were bare
now in frozen age a font of slime
where water of poetry I share
with beggars in a cup of rhyme