POEMS FOR NOONE  

Growth

Here is the heart that never grew; here is the child he shriveled to.
The mask conceals sin at the center as he reaches for the breast.

And the woman, she sees him as a spoiled cartoon, a wandering stick
That goes skiddle daddle through burning hills unable to think or act.

The world is a kind of contoured force that sears the beauty of the man
He lurches onward as the sound of his dying heart reaches him.