9-23 The witless poems

Every Poet Is Narcissus

When the poem is finally filled
with image, and metaphor frilled,

we gaze and bask at perfected reflection
(dazzled by texture and glittery complexion)

and glance at it over and over—
it grows on us like a four-leafed white clover,
then we hit SUBMIT.

    .   .

Nemesis, squirming and saddle sore
from reading pages of submissions,
squinting at the screen’s pitiless glare,
eyes stinging from amateur emissions,

e-mails the polite rejection,
imagining Echo’s question

“Who’s there?”


Family Circus

by the glass—

cuisine by
sunset beach—

Emma grabs
and sucks on
her big toe.