She Is Nice
This prose, a shipwreck...
Barnacled and long forgot
at the bottom of a lonely sea.
This song, a rusted railcar...
alone
'n fallen
down
a
d h
i c
t
beside a siding
at the edge
of a
once-factory-town.
These words, an underfed pack mule...
high
packed and piled with 'needs'
and wobbly-leggedly hoofing
down
a screeway, knees buckling backwards.
The words I choose
can't bear the feelings
i hoist upon, i strap to them
but i persist and enlist
whatever i can write
and stuff it full of my feelings
and send it, in my blind lover's hope,
off to you.
Hoping only that
some small sense of
what i'd packed
finds you where you are.
A world away from my heart.
It is my only cruelty
to weigh down, to insult these
Words. To charge them with
my heart's effulgencies.
I am kinder than i am to these words.
I am kinder than i am to these words.
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