|
by Todd Swift
after The Song by Beck The junk of life sinks into the discarded sun
By the rotten neon motel that sends motes
Into the sunset like poetry no one listens to.
The last teeth I count are in the hand, not to
Mouth; truth is a dog with kittens, drunk on
Winter tequila. My mirror lost its glass, wrote
Me a Dear John note in dust. It said, look out,
And I did. Saw the night, with its one eyelid.
Fed up with detritus? Move to this vacancy.
Here, light your own. The stars go on and off
Like women turning tricks for rotgut whiskey.
Some guy named Ned came by last week, shut
The Texaco. No angel, he. Told me to buzz.
Fuzz on my face. Kog’s dead. Memory-glut. |