Ars Poetica by Hudson Warm ’23 A muted, silent cry Explosions of red dye In crevices of stone These rocks we call our own A balance beam of glass Crash through, fall on your ass A shadow beam of sun The dry skin on your thumb Faded black soliloquies Of marionettes’ ventriloquies Chapped lips and mittened hands Ponytails with rogue strands A mercy-cry for the few If only your mother knew Of the knife selection in your belt The way, before you, that I knelt Faulty poker hand you have been dealt Teh wrods wchih I hvae awlyas mispelt — Please is the worst word to repeat To feel powerless on your own two feet On the bridge where your two lovers meet You’ve dangled off the brush of defeat —
These shattered letters I recall The broken words that made me fall The letters I still sometimes scrawl To send to illusory addresses I call 40 Spring and nine-one-four Fights over who loved who more Isn’t that all poetry is? A study in love and promises?
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