Dylan Hock

m
after talking with kyle
m
m
m
slump in this room
gray as the light is winter
thinking
of how your words can tear the bark from me
and
fill me with wormholes and
leave me for humus from the mystic summer that is
northern California ―the Bay―
and how it gets me wondering
where all the poets are being like gods these days
when gods they are, lost in a mirror.
What pains must we endure?
What grace in the further reaches of the light?
Does it us any good to fret the board and count
each note played to Pan while waiting for Greece
to wrap us in marble and crucify our tongues,
m
or should we continue the day,
each breath,
eating the night as the end of a pen,
rattling our hair and
mmmmstanding on street corners
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmhanging
m
m
m
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