Saturday, October 8, 2011


a surge of speech, verging on old news, i am seldom heard
by you; i can't interpret myself

like a kite, a solitary flier
wrapped up in a lamppost--
i'm not made to flutter.

it's like speaking to a beech tree, a deaf love
with verbal inconsistencies and sign-language adultery;
if my words were leaves, they would weep
down around you in a flurry
and i would never know if they struck
water, or just crumpled to the ground--

and asking words from you is like asking
salt from the sea, you can only give
me a silent tide but no sieve; no method
of drawing salt from sand from an ocean deep;
your rocks are words
and i want your rocks, boy, your rocking
to and fro
but your waves refuse to speak.


and you talk like you want to tie the knot
but there are too many knots tied
and i am not
a knife, love doesn't cut it;

and what is love without words
of love -- just trembling
sighs and mouth eating lips with lies.

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