JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

Some choose words for back covers

reflecting others’ reflections

my cover is bare

on the front, my lonely name

inside, my bleeding vein

 

When I read you

I want to be alone

a piece of your soul cupped in my hands

sipping, sipping

as I part your curtain

see you sitting there, deliberating,

choosing words that speak, arching

as bridges spanning continents

 

A man writes

and having written goes on his way,

leaves his bundle of words

wrapped in a cloth bag

on the growing heap

for dogs and archaeologists to sniff

and pick through

taste, authenticate

 

My dried blood, mixed with yours

in some anonymous museum of bones