A note,
scribbled in delirium
tells more than a pottered trope.
So, here, in a moment of tyranny,
I will say, and with all fervent
entropy, that I am dying.
I cannot take your hand,
your breath, your sorrow,
I cannot stand on a wisp
of love, like some great
Slambini, born to the rope,
born to the pole.
If you need a song,
listen to winds, listen to warblers,
listen to a trash bag,
flattered in a breeze.
This is not music, and
not my staunchest beat.
There is heckle in the moonrise,
scuff on a shoe,
and if you take these words verbatim,
if you hear these words true,
you may walk away, yes,
you may walk away,
forever and anew.
Image: Darius Bashar on Unsplash
Sweet and Bitter Greens 