drafts

panel of poets

Slick words stolen from thesauri,
Whispy loud whispers of
Love love love.

Eyes bored through like nails
One speaks the other glows with envy
One falters an ego blooms like
Red warm blood

Their words artifacts
Canadian soul food
Sting the air like
Rancid curdled cream

At ease in their tall red chairs,
Water, books, microphones,
Versed speeches meditate on
Old dead things

Afraid to look forward
The path clear before us
A bridge of fire
A curtain between us
Sewn from scraps of

Paper, will fall
to ashes.
And our only armor
These dead words