Thursday, November 30, 2023


Year after year, 
a poet's complexion
seem to worsen: 

each new pockmark 
or pimple 

is a line we
should have written;

every blemish, some 
vague image unexpanded, 
gone to waste;

every wrinkle, a metaphor 
we've failed 
to expand on—

or abandoned 
for the sake of some fetish  
with concision. Yes, 

little by little, 
our skin dries out 
and starts to tighten, 

as we feel 
entire stanzas—open spaces
deep inside us

closing their shutters, 
locking their doors, 

growing dusty 
as our cheeks fall 

and our jaws 
become rusty, 

until one day, 
we're left 
with no expression 

but the blank 
verse of rueful 
confusion on our faces.