by Tom Prime
Here is our post beatnik poet again, the wonderfully bitter young man. He's been here before.
I felt this strangeness
Coming out, like wintry frozen
Rivers, ribbons on my old guitar—when
I met her in the park; it was the sense,
Hanging like a dead criminal, that love
Would punch me in the nose—blood would
Flow gently in scintillating leaf shadow tree light
Out all over the dried dead earth, and
Flowers, like one sided mirrors, would grow.
