If bleak had been the intention
I’d have worn black
and let the fire die

Let me just
work up a little sunshine
to smear over these filthy panes
and put on some music

There is a pause
isn’t there always a pause?
and some movement
in other rooms
a passing fear of voices

If all these words mean nothing
what then?

The mirror is hung too high now
I can’t share
this false smile

I can sit at tables I have made
and look at books that I have read
and books that I have yet to read, but

One I now recall

I sailed with him once
when it seemed possible,
probable, almost certain

alas
my timid dry feet spurned the sea
from this rooted shore
I neglected to steam and bend the wood,
the toil was lost
in the imagining

Now all that’s left of this unseaworthy hull
is caulking the leaky seams
with Slocum’s solitude

Leave a Comment





17 − 12 =

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.