Thursday, March 15, 2012

To go from one to the next

You with the sad eyes
Sitting with a napkin folded in your lap
While drinks are passed
Voices clink
Glasses prattling on about the rectangular drywall swatches
And how he has these muskrats that keep building nests
In the drainpipes
And I can’t take my eyes off the only thing that will not move
Or blink

You with the blank smile
Running with your hands bleeding
Over sacred ground
It takes
To put you in restraints
Four white jackets
You show me the scars while laughing
But your lips are ice cold
As you whisper in my ear
Them’s the breaks
You with the wild heart
Standing in the doorway I’m pleading
A half swoon across the room
I don’t care
How fair
I forgive you and still feel the same
That’s your problem dumbass
You’re the last one to know it’s over
Those last words are still swinging
Like a back screen door in mid-air
You with the empty hands
Kneeling in the oldest living Zen garden
Bitter silence and fragments of ruin
Used up and left for show
A prostrate beggar frozen in the snow
Passersby ponder
If you had fallen from the sky
Necks crane toward building tops
Heads shaking, how could one be so cruel
But inside they all know
(The following poem, "To go from one to the next" was written one rainy afternoon in Taiwan after returning from backpacking through Burma)

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