What Remains 

poetry

Is there any poetry left in you?

Do shadows of words still flit behind your eyes?

Or are the pills what make this shade of magenta?

Have you found every synonym for a good idea?

Where is the mile-marker for too far?

Was this July anochecer born of the bloody, nutrient-rich placenta of yes?

Blackened heels and soles trodden barefoot over someone’s unswept apartment floor–

Black coffee balcony nicotine mornings and

Half-watched movie, impromptu cider nights,

Black ring around the eyes, yesterday’s

Makeup precariously in tact

Tell me,

After one week of our Ted Hughes, shitty shoes, never lose synthetic Bohemia,

Do you have any poetry left in you?

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