November 6, 2011 § 1 Comment
Tonight I decided I must write a poem
There are a few words scrawled
on the roofs of ex-lovers’ mouths,
a few lines etched into the palms
of all the starving hands I’ve ever held.
I know I have something about
dancing naked in the rain,
something about a soldier
crippled in the war;
and I could use these, together,
if only I could remember
the words in their right order.
Did sadness always come only at the end?
How many years before I was loved again?
I’m trying to plot the decline of laughter,
but does sequence even matter
in the selective memory of disaster?
A soldier in the rain,
dancing naked in the war.
A soldier dancing,
the war naked in the rain.
I wanted a poem, but all I have
Soldier, War. Rain, dancing.