My face is an almost ran
nearly nominated place
where mouth turns down
and eyes look away
from smallest expectations.
The stars have gone
out of them.
Traveling west through photos
of these last few years
I hardly recognize myself
“Have you been ill?”
my friends inquire.
Concerned faces zoom in close.
I don’t know how to answer them.
Blackening of the heart
is a rough reclusive beast
avoiding interviews and inquiries.
Guerilla Pamphlets
Volume 15