The Lammas Sun has gone
Beyond the glassed face, fish
swim through mulm like ghosts
who haunt cellar barrels
sifting the last of the lees;
I'll net you a beer, neck
your sheen of skin stretched
from nape to blade, sift hairs
weaving your back in whorls -
and after? There is no after.
My face is glassed, your glass
is froth; ghost-clear worms
sift mulm, feed fish.
Ever wondered how to workshop a poem on the poetry newsgroups? Here's how. For contrast, see how the same poem gets workshopped at a more "traditional" web-based venue.
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