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hey, you should have thought it over
gave a cent to the peasants before you ran

you knew they would come and take your dreams away
stick you in the middle of a forest without ladders
bearing no thought in mind
beyond a tree’s intent

It pokes it’s sweet head in
(the old affection)

it even sits about a foot
& a half before you, across

the table over a drink.
How it smiles, when you smile.

The poem is too obvious
at the point

of simplest confession.
You love her

for centuries, if capable,
you think.

Say something new
you tell yrself

repression
is as worn as an old hat.

You make her portrait out
of memory,

tonight, over a goodbye
& with pride, you note:

the light sweep of hair
the lips so stern firm, they

make a smile
solid as rock.  You make

in couplets
what cannot be made

in sentences.  You fall
to pieces in one point of the earth,

un-moving, as if in dedication;
un-moving so as to pick up later.

You pipe it, shove it, shut it up.
Scream out loud

into an empty tunnel
you’ve dug yrself.  Who cares?

There is no story, no
extended metaphor, in fact.

This is it.  The long tapestry
of affections to fall upon.

The only one:  Blah, blah!
Romantic wrestling, you’ve always

hated it &, now drunk, you draw
on nothing else.

What a voice you’ve got —
so big!

But what a small body
you’ve got: fetal-curled

stationary, still, & stationary (like
paper) writing every thing

in reverse —
where could you begin it?

Her chiseled lips, her
painted eyes,

toward what, letter by letter,
are you reaching?

Where is the poem?  You are
beneath it, stiffened in the

sweetness
of molasses, arms stuck

streaming sweet
trails of honey,

showering & showering
in the slow falling silence …