Tried my best to keep this healthy, give it sunlight
and a cold green lake, but it won’t go outdoors.
It wants a dim bay window, rain-sketched trees,
a long-haired cat to stroke as clouds slink out the distance.
Each letter starts "So long, so long..." and won’t conclude.
The fever of loving eats away by degree.
Hacking migraine. Stained handkerchief.
Tried my best to sneak this into the woods, get it to giggle
and swap spit, but it won’t tilt its dear chin toward me.
It wants a deep chair in the study, brass tacks securing
beaten leather, and a dog, devoted to its grief.
Warmer days aren’t always brighter futures.
There’s great public loneliness on blankets at the pool.
Tried my best to take this canoeing, glide deftly into seclusion
and apologize, but it won’t stop denying our acquaintance.
It wants to languish in affectation, swing dramatic
elbow gestures, exhale with whole lifetimes of breath.
The murder of missing lops off by digit.
Hatchet handiwork. Bloody woodblock.
Tried my best to keep this honest, take a straight leap
to the altar, but it won’t hold the damn long-stemmed lilies.
It wants to stay home, tucked in sick, for me to feel
its forehead, sigh, and promise not to say, just let it happen.
Fond good-byes aren’t always safe departures.
Often, entrances go wanting for ovation. |
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| July 22, 2003 |
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