Hey guys, I've been going through ups and downs lately in what exactly I want out of my poetry. Call it a long overdue period of artistic growth/wandering/whatever. Here's a poem from a new series, then. Enjoy!
spies in the field: gilded
it is we who don masks and take away the cigarettes from a parlor
and suggest a sip of coffee with a dark glance. the half-moon circles under a waitress’ eyes
is not enough to riot.
we think of overturning our secret disguise and go around bragging.
a car upturns down the boulevard and the city reminds us that