Dear Cut/Throat,

           

            “My secret life
                        has been made up” -WCW

We forget sometimes
that no matter what
no one knew
or exactly knew
the delicate defeat
could not endure
completely
the lost symmetry

the contents of the poem
like fumes of a burning
automobile
the eyes of a fly
the petty imagery
of clichés
pursuing our mouths
the squirrels and pigeons
defying death in their
shallow suits
the disconsolate tegument
a flayed rose
hunting the poet

and no end
among the woods
and no end
among the words.

Perhaps I am less
an artist
than a sonnet buried
under savage snow-

What good then
expecting your
warm still arms
startled
before dawn
for practically anyone?