Practice

I will this life
as best I can
to a blankness
wild and alive
as albino
tiger skin,
and so poetry
is poor practice;
my words hunt
and fornicate
on the stillest
winter ground.
And proof
that I ever was,
much like traffic
in the reflected light
of a hardware store
window—ripple
of searing chrome
that was never there.
I'll cash in
the house and leave
little but photos of me—
things I didn't even do!
No time to finally learn
poetry shines neither bold
nor rich as leather strung
in grizzly teeth.

© John Kilroy

john kilroy | iguanaland