Mark DeCarteret

Version 1.1

will not serve us as well as 1.0 did

eventually pitting a certain type of pirated rain

against the ungainly strain that we’ve put on it

unlike this sun we have trapped under glass

with so little skill or littler fits of stillness

a sort of infantile trope or worse pun

I will cite with the rest of my tics in

 Version 1.2

essentially retaining the one detail

I had left

(felt to be)

less this self portrait

of my inner saint

more this mess

of repurposed pain

I had not so much

painted but would stain in

(memo: soft clapping to be replaced with worship)

Version 1.3

yet another list of stylish

entitlements I’d

wished I hadn’t sent

via these too avid lies

rather than these mysteries

that were lost in the system

I sure ain’t that saint anymore

now this jackass in training

even my ruptures having left me

oddly enough put upon like a god again

dogged by this stymieing mist

another not so gray area

as I had been given to say

(might I still be that ruin in miniature

gone and teamed up with time

an ongoing gong showing

no sign of stopping

or opting out of

several winters ago

the snow floating like lint

towards the rafters

before there was afterthought

or what passed for the wind

or its sting to the interface

a sort of tossed aside desire or singing

sorrow riding it out

or might I say doing

its thing on the wings of tomorrow maybe not

post optimism

post most

windows stop dewdrop stop stain glass stop pew

words dragging worlds across loss

this one crow standing guard

though even my inner child is a sinner

rescued out of the darkness

where no lines are secure)

sure curse the marks on which I dine