by Gideon Burton
Of what remains, initially the shells
of words, so many husks of verbs and nouns,
there ought to be some substance more profound,
not moody mannerisms one can tell
are just the caricatures of better thoughts
now soured by the pregnancies of doubt.
It is as though a bureau drawer kept
a paper secret, mildewing, that left
no question, nothing like the inky grout
grown resident despite the bleach I’ve sought
with solvent rhythms, music, or the thrum
and swish of even sentences. Reserved
and waiting, venom still intact, the curve
of evening renders every speaker dumb.
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