Petty sorrows of the ego
Night craves them like a tongue its wine.
Moon’s eye bleaches the pillow
where bare I lie, my head a stone,
my mouth a hasp, dry.
Sweet grapes of specious self
long eaten, velvet skins split
and empty beneath the bed-attire,
with opal shadows, gone by morning.
Small sacrifice: the tiny deaths of what
I wanted, never got, and didn’t require.
Poetry should be heard.