Still Bad Poetry II

just deleted an isthmus
out of fear, sheer fear;
this, the culture of fear
and what it does, burns
to the voice, its irons

sharon olds, if only
i had your i, pyre fire
unpacking, welling sounds;
take me there gilded
and august, waves

Author's note:

This poem's forerunner, 'Still Bad Poetry', was anthologized in 2004. This poem appears here for the first time.

poem by Desmond Kon Zhicheng Mingdé
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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