When I imagine your wanton whispers
My
threadbare tympanum trembles thinly
These
days I feel like a tired t-shirt
Hanging
grayly from a doorknob
These days all the words I fling at the world
Narrow
fast back upon me
Here in
the dry outskirts of profundity
You
say that my poems lack
Thematic
content of the kind
The
word “poetry” in the entire
Virtue of its meaning signifies
Far
stars evaporate
Even
this mug of tepid tea
Has
a faint taint of complaisance
You
say that the poet
Who
never uses a past participle
Deserves
the eternity he strives for
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