Where we read

 

The literary moth flitters around

the books people never read

 

Moments of joy may be written

inside these deserted pages

 

So many searching souls

 

Soft winds trawling through the

sky

of love again

 

I become a sometimes poet

dip into a piece of writing

 

the literarty who published

everything - want better grammar-

 

the rain comes in the afternoon

and greens up the lawn

like proper april weather

 

those bastards keep on

getting published

 

All things and there subjectivity

 

the man in the corner

offers to print a pamphlet on

the cheap

 

I still haven`t written a proper

poem yet.