Poetry

the muse is dead.

as if I held her hand, full of regret. A weeping willow rejects me
breathing in my cigarettes,
death’s in the traveler
being left alone in Italy; from the garden,
all bodied, all that red and bleak

My reply, Lucy.

Originally posted on mtaggartwriter:
and also the men who are too large, walking. hurting, toward the storeand the women who sit in their cars, windows nearly closed, smokeeverywhere and they see me looking at you, in my phone, while I’mnone…