Ars Poetica

Ars Poetica

Among the books to be donated or tossed 
was a Barnes & Noble tote bag
with mold growing on Shakespeare’s face.

I examined it under the angled light of dusk,
compared it to the other mildewing poets 
their pages buckling on the slush pile—
 
felt the spores float into my throat,
saw a flash image of the rot covering my face,
the tote dropping between the piles of keep/toss,

between the spaces of unopened boxes 
that contained my self-published poetry:
The Nacre of Cancer & Like No Movie I’ve Ever Seen,

among the boxes of my own titles,
their pages softening
under the spread of rot.