A failure

Poetry is sad

and starving

for everything is

left in the barenaked

spaces of the lines

that flirt and twist

each other’s hair

into knots that can only be

combed out with long kisses

and shared breaths

and deep, sweet sighs

yet the next line comes

too quick and tearing,

leaving the knot untied

and the fingers stuck

and the mouths empty

and stares vacant

and eyes sponging

and noses oozing

and teeth fidgeting

and then its over

without mention of the

bees or birds

that talked to each other

in a hushed summer ease

or that love who left

before you could take back

part of yourself that left with them,

flesh remaining keyed to their locks

until the poem is written

and it is a failure.

The poet is everywhere

except where they need to be.