It’s not because I’m not thinking of you. It’s more because all of the poets I want to interview are not speaking.
So, to offer something up during this interlude, this:
poet as hermit
cobwebs cement hinges of doors unopened poet as hermit etched by etchings pencil stubs sub for friendship no reason to mend torn gloves sockless in sobriety all thought golden left unsaid audio recordings track upon track symphonies of voices fly under radar treasure troves gone with a click of ‘delete’ no one the wiser but poet, the hermit, snickers at elusive human attachment from birth to death all looks, aloof, alleviated by sleep a latched door away until stretchers slide silently into unmarked graves
note: i wrote this on June 18th, but it takes on new force with the death of Amy Winehouse