I’ve surrendered so much:
watched the coins
vanish from my pocket
due to my need to write poems,
lost breath and energy
to that craving for ink,
dulled myself
with too many poems,
become deaf
to the music of poems,
blind to the sinews
and gymnastics
of poems

so I shall pick a marker
and say after this,
no more.  
No poems after
this day, or after writing
this many more, or 
once this happens…

If I don’t stop
I know only
that I will continue
and that feels not bearable
at all.  
It feels like a 
sentence,
not a 
joy.  
Not a life.

If I start again
I’ll at least know 
it’s too much a part of me
to be excised…

Who’s going to be there
in my mirror
the day after I stop?

I look forward to him,
to my face not on
a poet’s head,
no matter how little time 
we may have together.

Marrow candy,
marrow coffee,
marrow greens,
marrow marrow
in the corners
of your mouth.
When you
bite in error
something soft
of your own, your
tongue or lip, even that
has meaty
iron in it.
You’ve been chewing
old remains for so long,
those spongy bonehearts
are all that you know.
The soundtrack
of whatever it is you do
is always the song of
splintering that croaks
broken, broken;
song
of vulture,
of carcass bird.