Poetry

Coal and meter

The poet digs down a decade

with her plastic pen, rests by 

the ancient seam, Earth’s little

little black dress boudoir-veined. 

Poet and coal are looking for love, 

unelectric coup de foudre.

But things proceed awkwardly.

The poet moves to the unburned bed,

can’t resist old conveniences: 

metaphor, simile, desk of wood – 

mocking pit lights that insist

on metered form and usage.

What’s left: tired enjambments

of surface talk, absence of mood, 

the customer IDs of ghosts, a shared

cigarette after extraction.

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