growing
solitude in
the
upstairs hallway
sound
of rain, of
music
turned down low
3000
miles is too far
wouldn’t
know where to
find
you, or you, or any of
them,
and then wouldn’t
know
what to say if i did
what i
fear is
giving
too much away
my own
words, my own
history,
turned back against me
my
oldest son, who loves
the
idea of war
who
loves to shoot and
be shot
and then come in
for
dinner
paces
the room in between
bites,
talking and laughing
and
joking with his brother
doesn’t
believe that pollock
died
for his sins
has
both his hands, both
his
feet, even as the soldiers
keep
kicking in doors, and
what i
fear is the truth held up
to the
light of the afternoon
sun
and i’m sick of not
saying
your name
am
starving on the
rancid
meat of regret
would
gladly put out the
horse’s
eyes myself, if the
fucker
would just hold still
No comments:
Post a Comment