nine hundred years pass.
then: internet tourists in sneakers
desperate to imagine, to explain.
the silent stones keep your secrets well.
what was it, to which you maladjusted?
if the river by your palace dried--
why not rebuild anew? or, in famine--
where were your granaries? and so on.
we act surprised. but then,
the muse dies, and still i linger
sitting in a desiccated river-bed
scraping poetry into the dust.
may 2020
the most damning response
is--you wouldn't if you knew me
implying both, you wouldn't
and you don't know me.
and honestly, i can simply tell:
you really wouldn't if you did.
but don't feel bad about it,
please--it's true of almost
everyone i've ever known.
it's ironic, too, i suppose.
i do know people, better than they
know themselves, sometimes, it seems;
and i not only would, but do,
spoken & unspoken, felt & acted.
some kind of sad clown syndrome
and not very notable, really,
beyond the melodrama of a poem.
anyway, i wish you'd stop saying it,
because i would, knowing me.
November 4, 2021
You've heard the adage:
our mothers scolded us with it
(at least mine did)--
but do you know how it ages?
It begins--if you can't say anything
nice, don't say anything at all;
then: if you can't think anything nice--
well, you see. That's how it ends.
The adage, metastasized.
One year, we find ourselves
doing nothing at all
thinking nothing at all
still waiting to be nice.
may 2022
