If you look too long at you
you see nothing else. They say
the art becomes abstract and distorted,
ends up being devoured by narcissistic
demons. (Writing as if You mattered?)
Better to write about birds,
or birds in branches in trees,
or birds in branches in trees in December.
Looking up, away, outward
is the true art of poesy, they say.
They say you are conceited in this conditional
demand that reading you means
seeing you, all guts and gruesome glory.
Self-pronounced identity poured sloppily
across white paper like dark-black blood
across white-silk sheets. They say, you
are just too raw! Seeping and spreading stains
across the innocent white fabric — now ruined
by the heartbeat of warm red iron and oxygen —
destroying forever the pretty-pristine vision we prefer.