none of that by Vaughan Gunson

I try to stuff it down this poetry thing the light of a child, a rainbow stretched to black it wants everything if it could if it might be good,                                      which is always in doubt like leaving home, leaving to follow the stars across the Pacific always in doubt. it’s been said before, & once more: it’s not the time for poetry (when has there been a time?) we need something braver, something harder                                      —poetry can be a wayward & glorious coward & you can take one too many steps over the body in the street, the street where there are no camellias planted none of that.

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