Not kisses, me.  —N. Cissus

The sentence is no longer necessary.
We’ll need God, the universe, the earth, the sea,
And my poems, of course, in a book marked me.

The van is outside humming!
They’ve come to take my punctuation.
Take my commas!  I pause no longer.
My reflection…my heart is thrumming!
Plato asked: can music dionysian
Ruin a nation?
The answer, by the way, must come from me.

I stare.  I no longer hear.
I look at the violin.

My art is flat.
I have nothing to put my soul in.
I’m only myself when I’m just this near.
I look in my eye—where you spat.
I’ll need to borrow your semi-colon;

My sentence will no longer be.
My point of view has won.
What was that wooing noun doing looking at me?


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