is broken glass to me
stained but shiny still
the kindness won’t, history will
the tree that stood forlorn
may not have been an oak
the words were not heartfelt
the poem was a joke
in strands from your white sink
glistens and meanders
its death a dollar drink
I will pull along for you
until the first desert day
when we reach the mystic spot
I will pull and turn away
the picture frames you build
from clear glue and trees killed
have grown weary with age
old wood, decline, rage
two spirits, deserted in a bleak sun
screaming “I’m the only one!”
but one of you is wrong
the older sister, all along
you tumble, gravely, to the soil
and listen to the dead ones
gravity is the enemy
the fallen freaks the poet shuns
and I know your eye shape
changes with each day
but that will mean little
when the loved one is away
No comments:
Post a Comment