The Poet

His face a mask, built for the theatre

Not the scarlet catharsis of the act

Yet any time he gazes upon you

The weight of his eyes pulls heavy

On the mask’s upturned lips a little more

Cracks spiderweb slowly day by day

A fine dance downward from the gaze

Of the iris to the force of his lips

The Taste of Blueberries

The violet stains of blueberries on your teeth

As true to their colors as the countless

“I love yous” and “I want to fuck yous”

Slipped off your tongue like so many

Raw eggs broken on the edge of the mixing bowl

Shell caught between my teeth, digging

Into yellow gums receding