Umbriate Press Poetry

The tiny virtues of so little joy—

Overcast remorse winks at itself

Through the mirror of my face

And beckons my departure

With a flick of a finger

Indicating the direction of a

Path not there.

Were I Li Po, I would, perhaps and in no sense of jest, write:

All winter I slept like a drunken baby.

Upon waking, breastless and in immediate want

I screamed and kicked and sunk my nailless fingers into my hairless head,

Making little fists that danced in the wind.