She reads poems to me at midnight-
Hopkins's Echo, Oliver's Summer & Geese,
Like clockwork, she dismantled the heart of me:
with surgical precision;
with disquieting ease
She never had to second guess;
She knew she had me dead to rights,
She knew the very words I was about to utter
Even before the assembled letters take flight
She said she liked the idea of me,
The good points, the flaws,
I found myself unguarded-
denuded, raw
Now all she has to do is ask,
Now all she has to do is tell,
And I'll be listening to her poems again
until the moonlight fell
YOU ARE READING
Confessions of a Tired Poet
PoetryWhat kind of poem would you write if you stopped caring about everybody else? Confessions of a Tired Poet is a collection of short poems that gives you a backstage pass to the life of a poet who's sick and tired of his life. This is the front seat t...
