#10
Poem
I had at one point memorized
the meanings of all your names.
Your cluttered syntaxes stormed
lightning angry pink in my mind
and I never could shake the feeling
that you had done this on purpose.
With a simple turn of corkscrew fingers,
the way you spun your words
with the finesse and malice of a spider.
How many before had their worlds turned
to the ash of a volcano; how many
had dropped their vowels?
I feel I have very little left.