
Here, a poem in iambic pentameter composed for the workshop:
Effluvia
The cage, the stage, the mess; who cares today?
When guns are run behind the house and war –
A willing gate beneath the feet of exiles.
I’ll find a day to massacre them all!
Soft petals from the sink; what thoughts can come
Behind the old counter? Hail stones, red lights –
The moon pours coffee to the hearts of kids
Splayed on the street amid the strain, the mess.
Translation is a frozen guilt, right here,
Over the cake left from the holiday:
“And how is the consistency of lime
For naught did I in hate, but all in honor.
Unlike the broken treasures on the street?”
Moussaka, Lupus, Occidentalis
The race is run, my days are done –Exeunt!