The waitress who played the poet like a cheap violin, and revisited

Emily, I am drowning in the miasma

of being

and i wanted to tell you

how lovely most things are

but

I think the poison has

eaten my voice.



Emily, I am wax, I am clay.

The gloam reaches over dusted remembrance,

The fire is dying in poems of calibrated light.

Lumenescence for failed generals, a signpost

Like a drunken scarecrow. Emily,

I am the direction of silence.