Ex-Love Poem

I don’t care if I’m there
in your life’s end credits.
I had you filthily enough.
You had me filthily enough.
It was a form of grand theft. So what.
Go back down into your foxhole.
But never say that I don’t remember
the strange color of your eyes:
blue-grey-green. An uncertain iceberg.
Submerge ninety-ninths of me.
Drag me across the ocean bottom
like an iceberg trying to get gum off its shoe.
I’m as likely to lie with a mummy
in the museum as–ever--you again.
So what. Down there under wraps,
some blind thing still believes it will live forever.

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End of Summer Surprise

I opened that poetry book I recall I had been reading one distant summer day, one now foreign year, by the lake. And a tiny mummy of a ladybug fell out like punctuation, a casualty of outdoor reading, carapace in a carapace.

Dear Little Polka Dots, I’m sorry. I never saw you fly in. I never knew I buried you alive in stanzas. Your little skeleton’s the bookmark of your fate.

Cute as a button,
dead as late.