Revisionist

drooping little Lilly's 

in dead ponds

and the birds fly up

scatter as buckshot

and it's hard luck

and no luck

and the tears of poetry

my fingers scratching

the filthy stars

and sparrows

call the dead to dance

but the dead do not answer

and they answer

and I do not hear

but look at clouds

with eyes shut

I misrepresent my meaning

as my own

as a dwarf

scratching out prayers

on a cupboard

my sentry has left

and I raise my bottle

my horn 

my albatross

and faces behind doors

shuffling through misery

but I am blind

and a beggar

lulled to sleep

to the place

of no place

as shadows

drape the moon

as I sleep

to roses and thunder

the rain never stops

never stops

*

February 15 2022