Evangeline Ingram

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Without dragging its name
in off of the street, where it was
enjoying a brief respite
from too-careless mouths,
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All the poets are dead,
save the ones left on tumblr,
who you can message ten times
without putting down breakfast.
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I stole a poem today,
Found it pressed between leaves
Of a book in a store
Filled with a thousand books
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Sir, you misunderstand me:
When I say that he was very human,
I do not mean to say that he
Was wise, empathic, compassionate,
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Here we go to get it all wrong again:

A star-crossed love (that old cliché)
Of joined hands in secret (together anyway)
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I sit at desk, dip pen to ink,
And once again attempt
To lay bare some hidden thing
I know not how to say.
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