|
 |
|
|
It's not that I want to hurt you, but it's November.
The trees drop their yellow suicide notes
at a yellow suicidal pace. It's wet,
deep wet, and I am sorry
to end the affair on a damp note, as well,
but do you not find our hearts as uncatchable
as stacks of damp sticks? It's a shame, babe,
but it's not my shame. What we meant to do
never counts enough once the bed's
doused in gasoline, the window's shattered.
Nothing stays put. The cells
sluice around on the glass;
we bring down the lens at too high a power
and crack the slide. Best intentions
only come up once they've been despited.
Now, the sky's gone rain-fat, eating up
all the gray, and I want to go home and try out
a new kind of naked
in the privacy of without you.
What can I say? I hope the next love
turns out better than this, closer
to the best it can be
for all involved. Might I recommend
that these miserable trees
and November be kept
well away and fully clothed. |
|
| November 14, 2004 |
|
|
|
