those artists


he plays his instrument uneyed, the stench
of pinot blubbering the notes on
the drunk piano like a
soft prayer exhaled in cold
winter, like bicycle spokes churning
in water, as if someone was learning
to drive a porsche down seventh avenue
blind and hold up two ivory keys worth
the meaning of life.

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In Apology


If apologies were butterflies
Fluttering into a sunny haze, lost
Under burning trees, reflected from skies
On mirroring rivulets — and thus cost
Nothing, save your lovely smile, shimmering
Over a lovely smile — mirrored again.
When, thus down on my knees I sit, wishing
That you smile on my faults — perhaps then
Am I absolved of my wrongs, forgiven
As the butterflies hide in the flames.

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