Jul
19th
Sun
19th
Pen’s Death
A hand upon life’s young throat, you coursed and swung
through tended streets and planted
boulevards of flowering words
Now the ghosts of valleys, hills and troughs,
stand in their place
A mottled pock-marked page of scars
Dry balls of lines like clumps of hair
become the smoking spiral of your falling plane -
your clutch and gasp for final words.
None will come but this:
An eight, an eight, a curling scrawl
A guttering peak, an apple’s fall
