as the
poet on the roof,
‘tis I,
asking you Lord,
would it have soiled
a vast eternal plan,
to throw some seasoned salt,
on mes écrits?
let this soliloquy
make my case,
my summer
soul-on-ice,
hungover from
the sorrowed sobriety
that stayed, retained,
the sense of loss
that are the mainstays
of my isolated days
long after I’ve left,
the black velvet of
my screen, and I,
wonder where poems
come from, ceasing to
wonder, perhaps as simple
as some sweet old critter
being a human whisperer
**** the czar
and
**** me too.