Masters

If I could speak

then Masters would be my name

Masters writes, Masters sings

Masters dies, again and

again

He traces poetry onto girls' backs

sends them home, burning

like fires after the mid-summer fest

faces red as the Bonzas that grow 

on the trees that nobody sees

They say his back is scarred 

with memories,

that when he touches you

they will be yours to have

as if a breath could hold a wish 

They say that his lips are like

stones

To open them would take a million years,

and then

a million more

And yet he is soft

like the summer peaches 

that grown on the farm

 down growing 

like minuscule needles

on golden skin

That if you put your ear

in the space inside his heart

you could hear the race of a man,

and of a life

They weren't the ones

who knew

what his heart looked like

from the inside