Recipe
It was as if I had resolved to make
a cake but found the eggs were rotten.
I rescued what I could. Yet how could I take
comfort in that, knowing I’d forgotten
to source all ingredients needed? “You have
an unhealthy ambition,” you said, “which when you die
you’ll take unfulfilled to your grave
having lived nothing but a half-baked lie.”
Is there no merit in my part-blended verse?
Nothing tempting you to read
no matter how much mixing I might rehearse?
Not only is my output seemingly insipid,
the ink has dried and crusted in my pen -
spur enough to see you enraptured by other men.