hang on my fingers
like laundry
they stop short like an
admission of guilt
even metaphors are
bland like heavily milked
coffee words a poet’s tools
are now dull with overuse
unsharppened they hack
at the page haphazardly
like machete wielding guides
in a rainforest
it used to happen like love
but now I’m divorced
from the

Long Way (for M2)

We hadn’t spoke in months
but then my phone buzzed
like a startled rattler or the
end of the period it came
from nowhere like a water
spout and drenched the fires
of my longing like zealous
volunteer firemen the call
caught me by surprise like a late
night doorbell my hello hung
in my throat like a starched shirt
too perfect too starched were my
words that they fell from my mouth
like glass