There’s a hole inside of me.
I think everybody sees it, and they’re all waiting
For me to say something about it. Maybe, they
Think, that’ll be the start of something good for us.
A couple in the crowd, near the front, look at me as the
Footlight emphasizes my nervous sweat.
I look at the hole. (I will die with this weight on my lap.)
I look at the hole. (I gave away the brilliance of being alive.)
Sand around the edge and some trash
Begin to fall. Everything is reaching a natural
Conclusion.
Finally, my lamb of blood and wasted breath,
The splinter pricks the skin.
How long have these eyelids prevented me from understanding the abusive temperament of
Spring rain?
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