Reverberations

Since my ash has 
blown in your mirror 
I am warming up to your surrogacy. 

Too much deep, 
expansive cleavage. I am climbing 

down a canyon. 

The phoenix: 
finds the water― 
in your eyes. 

Writes a funeral. 

No punctuation, the 
unwritten poet, 
will not last the night. 

I am spelling out 
the grief of the lonely man on 
the deserted road, talking 
incoherently.