Yawns. Stifled, heads
Half-turned
To protect
The host’s ego. It isn’t really
Boring, being here,
The music
Too loud,
Like the laughter,
The dress.
(Bright birds
On black silk, the women
In weird shapes
Or colors
That shriek)
But
We could be home
Alone
With the night,
Enfolded
In sighs—
Instead
The yawns
Come on, forcing themselves up
Like chasms too wide
To bridge
With easy social grace.
My book of poetry is being redone by me, I have a beautiful cover designed and the book will have a few more than 200 poems in it. I am going to have it printed on demand here in Canada. When it is done I will let you know when it is done and if anyo
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