<u>The Minimalist</u>
Crows wheel overhead,
and the only sounds
in this dead land
are the cries of the poets
Keening for lost adjectives.
Mad Mary,
Minimalist,
divelicates
my whole.
Masticates,
adjudicates
and
extricates
its soul
“Show don’t tell.
Don’t need that.
You’ll do well
to lose some fat!”
My epic poem
has lost
its heft,
arhythmically.
Like the Cheshire cat,
now all
that’s left
is a simile.
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