It has been a day empty of smooth lines
I have not said them, have not thought,
have just recited syllables that don't connect.
They hitch loosely as my dovetailed sadness
that mismatches vigor from your soul.
I thought I was a young memento, now
I am a series of infractions on the green lawn
where you rest and watch and sail through
your allotted time.
It has been a day of smooth lines I have emptied
from the mist around my life.
I have recited sounds I do not mean to impart
sadness, meaning, sharing.
Any of those motions grow away, and weeds
are thriving in the fine small sprays of rain
each morning prior to the lifing of these blinds.
It has been a day of lies, unkempt decisions,
made, unmade, new linens packed away, and leaving.
I have spoken to my soft heart, teaching it, as if
I might refashion silence into something to be learned
from, not just losing heart and wallowing in fellow
disappointment. Fallow mornings, fallow daylights,
life remade into a spin run slowly into near darkness,
with center field a damp bisected place
we ransack for a way of seeing what we say
exists now, and might live.