Monday, October 25, 2004



If only the ineffable were not
just that. If only someone
were not shedding some thing
relentlessly: used
bandage at my feet
with gravel and plastic skittering
in wind. And you
have seen jaundiced condoms
left behind like dead
pupae on the ground
and you’ve heard the song,
a confetti of noise,
inside the shell of that passion—
if only infinite
litter were not all
that could distract,
tonight. The storm of the mundane
has never moved on
and I have named
the water in the rust-ringed sink
a thousand times
as it spun out of the visible world.
If only for a time.
If only for a day
as it’s counted by a cheap watch.
If only any arithmetic
were bearable
or an old word worth repeating
or some fact
a fellowship with time:
the song the yellow canary sings to his mate.
Her body ripening
in response with eggs.
If only this
were true.

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