Stagnant
We all sink
restrained in pot holes
of sinking mud
under my heel
I can feel the sorrow of the last writer
He wasn’t so fortunate
it’s far easier
To sit
The blood of Christ
And the sermon
We used
to roll this joint
Dive
rush towards the end
There’s a road
Off of Sammish way
Where you can see the writers sinking
On each corner
There are some small craters
Where the greats used to be
I can see Kerouac crater
Right between
Steinbeck and Poe
