In My Country

Stephen Kuusisto, Letters to Borges


Many of the poets lie

Which is to say

They know poems


Save you



Save you

Blue skies, etc.

Yet in taverns


At conferences


They become



Of medicine

“My poem will heal you!”

They cry—“Angels brush

My cheek,” they whisper,

“I know how

To make shit

Into gold.”

At grand occasions

They always look past you

To see if someone else

Can be convinced

& when they’ve had much to drink

They bitterly complain

No one reads poetry.

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University

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