an evening’s end
alone on a bench
face painted by a
fully mellowed moon
the art of eyes
asking the
unanswerable
to silent stars
begging the poet
take this speck of life
pulling on the universe
and give us a reason
to listen
every ooh and aah we aim if for a flower’s sunny side the dressed up showoff side the hair and makeup side the red carpet side preferred by the eyes of cameras bees and butterflies perfect for couplin
you could say a poet is like the spy who breaks into places looking for classified information skeletons or warm bodies in closets everything that holds a secret an untold story to tell needs a bit of