She wished to be dressed in poetry
but she didn’t understand that
imagery fades and that metaphors
are too easily forgotten.
She asked why I didn’t utilize my
alliteration eyes—why I hid the tag
‘ hello my name is: writer ’
beneath San Francisco bays
and rotting ink grenades,
still in dead crusade.
I broke pencil shavings in
skybound veins, just to taste
and I bled like a sinner
for mere dreams of some redemption.
“I’m only a poet of capitulation”