I Left A Poem
I left a poem on the side of the highway last night.
With every exhale, words, like litter, escaped me
To flee-float out and about and along,
To a claustrophobic, the confessional
was penance enough, she thought -
an upended coffin filled with rotting sins
and little more.
Art (For An Audience Of One)
I may be Art
in the way that he was, she was
in the way that you,
most certainly, are –
[For the record... even I find the choice and extent of the metaphor here really rather odd, and kind of intriguing]
Here, Now, Tonight
Dare I breathe even?
Would you hear, perhaps
Even the quietest of inhales
And exhales, were I to do so?