you are a thin writer in a dark 
age. you will discover the back
corner of your own life
and settle it. build upon it
your matchstick steelworks,
cut from it your molasses-
black diamonds. 

you are no example. to be
the everyman you would need
to fail yourself. what is your
audience? the tiled hallway.
your writings thicken with
the old economics, too much

gin at the open mic. you tuck a
street name in the third line —
your pleasure like a duchess
showing one hollow ankle.
there is no despair but
the personal, no world but
the visible. all sex and
manners, no hacked phlegm, no
family tax benefit a or b, no rent,
no language 

in the abattoir or of the abattoir, 
a vapid night with no moon so 
no dark, no ancient plant matter 
burned and beaten into Color-
bond, no workplace injuries to
go uncompensated, no children
or elections.     in a poem about 
soup you anonymise the lesbian 
bar aware that there’s no point,
everyone knows its name,

it’s the only one left.