Ego Maintenance
Not so much
she is flaunting her titillating
conversations; a quick
silly girl, cacophonous

all these years
without the merest hint of poetry,

she finesses her old requiem,
flaunts it like a weeping statue
carved into the sunken shell
of a graveyard.

Not so much
about style, or age
she flirts, open mouthed
and red tongued
with the man
who brings her poetry
on the silver salvers
of her ancestry,

how she laughs to tell it,
how she shapes her body
these days

how she'd rather lick
your words from the air
like dying gasps



just one more.

Not so much
a fool; more broken ankle,
more finger of birth-strangled
babe, more
dying star

than eclipse.

Not so much age,
but entanglement.

Not so much rage,
just five-fingered resentment.