Three Poems

She

Nothing is as it appears to be.
What is this aging? What am I to make
of these pale, brutal numbers? For a moment I’m fourteen.
The sky didn’t fall in, it fell out.
Men suck on their sugary black pistols
but the world isn’t ruled for a second.
The pen is mightier than the sword
only in the fretwork of a poet’s language.

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