Poem For Eating Dinner By Myself

December 22nd, 2005

A list of broken words.
A sound of lost and found.
My own, a heart of broken hearts.
My guitar of strings unwound.
A life of letting down my guard.
A life of letting go.
A love of endless luminescence.
A loveless life of saying “no.”
A nervous touch of gold,
But just when the gold is ripe.
And underneath my afterwards,
A writer with no type.
A loneliness of simple nights.
The ugliness of those.
A man of 85 I am,
With whiskers in his nose.

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