While Drinking My Muse To Death

The sound of trees-

or maybe,

keystrokes in action

as a mad storm

kicks up

the only thing left-

s c a t t e r e d m e s s

on the ground.

This poem is rotting.

The dead already know

how much it hurts

to be left behind.

This poem is a ghost.

Each kiss,

a separate hook to hang.

I can say the right thing

and turn this page

into perfect paper..

I can't afford to publish

worthless passion.

Strange faces,

beaten oblivion--

squared by the frame of

warm black light.

The sound of trees-

or maybe,

hands clapping

where my

wounded muse remains.