Micro-poems

Beard

Let’s fucking paint with that beard,

let’s roll on the hardwood floor.

Cover ourselves with scratchy redness

before we grey and dye.

Hearts

Maybe it is a dead thing, my heart–

or maybe my brain’s to blame, for

my heart is useless–

only keeps me alive

How Grows a Garden

One has not the strength

of a garden

or the breath that makes a man.

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