Aug 252011
 

Hell, darling,
stares at us across the breakfast table
as we pass the salt and brimstone
and snap the paper

crowded with crowing cowards.

We're chafed by the hurrying goers in the Tube,
the racy lackadaisical others
who groom themselves and consume food
out of sight.

Other places, other faces
eat the intimate knowing of them;
those who remain strangers to us,
to me, really, my dear guest-stranger--

improbable possible lover
full of shifts and slidings, unexpected music
glad as a stack of glasses,
tragic as matches.

Lord, help keep these words elided from my speech!

We eat our words and whey,
sugaring the pus.
Toast scolds
my inner ear's inner aria . . . .

Writing's just
a wounded man's spastic tracks in the snow
--a litter of gesture
against littleness.


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