Mark Smith-Soto

Word Weary

Tonight I hear the beautiful poems
But they curl up in my ear, or slur
In the cork-lined brain, they don’t

Dive into my throat or chest,
They won’t even bang into each other.
Why am I dead to them tonight,

In my gut, in my groin, why do they
Float in my skull like a mobile of tin angels,
Or ladies that just won’t go lipstick-crazy

To bring the place down, glass walls crashing,
The air inking over with sharks?