The Lost Cause of Poetry
Branches scattered
Among the flowers
And even the wallpaper
Where my thoughts do wander
Not silently
Into entrails
Not my own
An ear pressed to a crack in the floor
Listening for
The lost cause of poetry
I split my skin open
And feed the pulp to the flames
Of infinite afternoons
Underneath the tables
That still divide us
Are we all not
Secretly holding hands
Your eyes pried open
Like the eggs of exotic insects
By the hands of a prophet
Folded into a fist
They will never take root in anyone’s heart
Looking for
The lost cause of poetry
— Justin Curfman
Naples, Italy - September, 2025
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