Life's harvest (if there be one) into ash
The summers burnt and nothing left, reap: zero
A barn forever void, you daylights hero
A sack long since run empty through its gash.
Am I a hamster with two pouching cheeks?
I hate and love myself as anyone
When I catch sight of me with mirrors, done
Somewhere he's left a track, that sack that leaks.
Who ever cares? The pigeons ate it up
They tuck in vomit, sputum, spooge in case–
To nourish the maroon no cream is base
Whatever the refuse to grab, it's crop.
Choice muck or offal trim, fruitlessly gone
Ashes and easy bones, groomed by the sun.
July 15, 2001
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