Word Weary
Tonight I hear the beautiful poems But they curl up in my ear, or slur In the cork-lined brain, they don’t Dive into my throat or chest, They won’t even bang into each other. Why am I dead to them tonight, In my gut, in my groin, why do they Float in my skull like a mobile of tin angels, Or ladies that just won’t go lipstick-crazy To bring the place down, glass walls crashing, The air inking over with sharks?