Like the very Gods in my sight is he who
sits where he can look in your CV, who marvels
at your gigantic list of reviews, its sweetness
murmur at the buzz your career
accumulates, all for him. Hey, just noticed
it's National Poetry Month underneath my breast.
Let me only glance where you are, the voice dies
I can say nothing.
Here are some photos of my peeps, stricken
underneath my skin the tenuous flame
my ears are muted and nothing shows
we plug in thunderous content
in contrast to the dominant fever trend
but also complementary to it caveat, in case
my future tenure-track MFA boss reads this, I feel
that death has come near me.