i wish you would tell me beautiful things.
and you do. More beautiful than I can conceive.
and still I am sour and dour and unremarkable.
i would tell you of the disarray, the fear of losing it all
if you wouldn’t pin it so squarely,
so rightly upon my breast.
It is what soldiers do, come home to peace:
to laundry, the doldrums of civility.
It is no place for us, the dispossessed
from too much caring,
too much seeing.
I wonder that there is not a more
pervasive sadness that penetrates:
proselytizing its demons
just behind its gods.
They must be mad men,
those that hold the tears at bay!
Who can see through the kaleidoscope tears
to target a heart so righteously?
It is no matter. Fortuna’s wheel has rolled.
The beauty of your words, your voice,
will shatter reason, and desire,
until there is only the longing.