After You Have Vanished
- tripewriter - Kevin Prufer
THE little red jewel
in THE bottom of your wineglass
IS so lovely I cannot
rinse IT out,
so I go into THE cool and grassy air to smoke.
Which IS your warmly lit house
past which no soldiers march
to take THE country back?
When you reached across
THE table to touch my hand IS not attainable.
I cannot recapture IT.
And no gunners lean on their artillery at THE city’s edge,
looking our direction,
having shot THE sky full of bright holes.
THE light bleeds from them
and IT always will.
they captured our city
and now they ARE our neighbors,
going about their business like they WERE
one of us.
Soon, like you, they will be asleep,
having washed THE dishes and turned out THE kitchen lights.
When I inhale, smoke occupies me.
When I exhale—
By morning THE wine
in THE bottom of your glass
will have clotted.
I’m sorry I called IT a jewel.
It IS not THE soldiers
who have shot me full of holes.
IT IS not light that pours out.
Love did this.
I WAS filled with wine.
Now I am drained of IT.
such poorly written tripe touted as world class poetry
"the word poetry"