Frontal... Poem by RIC BASTASA

and there was this abbot of
mont serrat
who used an unknown number
and texted me the worst story about
myself, which he believes to be
this sort of hook, line and sinker
his lips entangled in the
falsity of
the pleasures of the rumor
and i simply read and afterward deleted
what must necessarily belong
to him

in a little way the rivers get crumpled
but the rains flatten out what creases are there
now, i listen only to myself
and see the sheen of my own light
to myself i am true
to no other must i be responsible.