The Prospector
A long day I’ve had of it,
and a tiring one ,
and little to show for it
but this loose scree
of words like dinosaurs.
The fossilised remains of once
great moments.
I’ve tried the words again.
Again I’ve failed –
what use is it to me that Keats
once wrote, thou still unravished
bride of quietness , and tore
the language from God’s living
throat. I fossick, find, make space
back of the truck--say virgin girl
lets go. Its time to fuck
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