GLORY

i have lost my muse

and opening the front door

to look south to the refinery flare there

i know my pie is small

when i was high in London

a strange god asked me to take photographs

of the handful of glory that glistens 

without him 

out 

there

and i know i am never in a comfortable place

to view beauty 

or real art

but i click away anyway

cold

i have lost my muse

and Kerouac’s sad face and bad shirt

accuse me

every time i pass his paperback

to

get

ice