Poem
The question is yes.
The answer is no.
The snow is plowed.
The ground has blood.
The yes is suspicious.
The no is good.
But you’re no good.
And you’re not god.
The dog is gone.
The bone’s been gnawed.
The doing is done.
Your going was awful.
And so: the jig is up.
Ergo: the plan is fucked.
My lamp is lit.
I spit on my palms.
I lay out my maps.
I tallow my wicks.
The thick of it,
I’m kicking through.
And I am sick of you.
