Three Poems by Rob Plath

THERE’S NOTHING WORSE THAN TOO LATE

quit
counting
yr
fucking
demons

refrain
from
fingering
yr
scars

instead
go
gaze
at
yr
angels



this lens

i can’t help holding yr death up
to everything

you die again w/each season
you die again w/things
you’ll no longer witness

death isn’t the approaching winter
or a dark shrouded figure
death is this piece of glass
fashioned from yr absence

death is this lens i keep
holding up to everything



of pure joy

i hear my landlord yelling at the dog thru the wall. look at all this hair! it looks like a fucking barber shop floor! i’m gonna get rid of you! & i picture the old boy standing there wagging his whole backside, reminding humans that the coat of his frame is composed of magic strands of pure joy.