this morning; after noon hour, a sestina. By dinner, I was deep
into a French villanelle I’d come up against at the slam.
I felt more like corrugated cardboard than ever before,
soggy as well, I don't want to die by burning.
I don’t think I’ll get a choice.
The landfill for this kid.
He’d seen it coming since the beginning. He had to go
all the way down. He knew that. Not why, though.
It hardly mattered, certainly wouldn’t change
a single thing. And still the devil to pay.
Let him take it from the bone.
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