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.