raison d'etre
There isn't much left
in the wry turn of a concentric
circle, the way the graphite
deepens and shines and rejects
crumbs of itself to smear
about, upon the paper, out
from the host. Little but important
sacrifice.
There is no reason to write poetry,
and so there is my reason. There is no reason
to the shaggy bundle of dream, fine
and deleterious and breaching
my good, contained life. What good
are the contents of the punctured package, spoiled.
Good spoils of war, I sit at home
and take my time, and spoil good.