A poet is a chrysanthemum sunset

The morning scowls
The chrysanthemum face of your disdain
Tightly unfolding, you do not
Much care for poems, or other
Jejune rigamarole
Je ne sais pas non plus
The flint/schist in yours eyes
Has counted days like careful
Sails jibing
I have the numb
lizard tail writhe
Of escape, and offering
In submission, another useless
Fragment of the self
Here too is a sunset
Diminish until
Pinhole bright
You are almost gone