Corey White

I write poetry

once, I killed
a cockroach
with a Bible;
I still feel guilty
about it, the way
its guts pumped
as its broken legs
tried for a miracle
which was never
gonna come.

sure it was just
a cockroach,
but that’s the point.

tonight,
in this red wine
night,
I write poetry.

just words, simple
and useless words
that have never
saved anything
worth saving.

but that’s the point,
to try for a miracle
as you die.

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