The poems no one heard of populate
This verbosphere, invisible and bleak,
Dottering incoherently in dry
And crumby cupboards, turning bedsheets gray
On sleepovers, making little girls pale,
Afraid that they have accidentally bled.
Elegiac, embarrassed, and full of tropes
Disparaged by Seleucian kings, they tell
Stories of unrequited jealousy
Engraved on stone with sponges, vetted by
The underappreciated and the fat
Recipients of Golden Books and schmaltz.
A few are goodbye letters, never signed.
A few are tax returns, unaudited.
Some lisp. Some swoon. Some have these wild ideas
About the immanence of outer space.
They drool. They belch. Complain. Complain. Complain.
They like a mirror, write they backwards verse.
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