I have stopped reading word-photos.

I have no need to be reminded
that I am here.

I don’t want someone
to tell me
what their eyes
are
seeing.

I don’t need some poet
telling me
that inanimate objects
are like this or that.

And that Martians
see things
differently.

From verse to verse
I can’t escape
their images of reality.

These word-photographers
Take me nowhere—

except to some insipid
room or
beach or
disused shed.