Stone on top of the ground
after Cesar Vallejo Jay Sizemore is dead and no one knew him.
He died without fanfare, as so many do,
just another day of the week, another slap
of thin limbs against window glass. He wrote his words upon a cloud,
soon forgotten, like the scent of rain.
The computers hum onward, electric ant farms,
cutting the tunneled circuits of loneliness. I died every day, but on the last...
Related Subjects
Poetry