Chris Lord
I could not understand him
The perimeters imposed
By his script being too narrow
To allow improvisation
And I lacking a memory
For motionless trivia
Found no joy in its repetition.
Each word, a homing pigeon,
An emergency delivered
In paper, like a cigarette
With only a tobacco stain
To disembark the senses.
He spoke only in haiku
A single-petaled flower
That answers before
The tension has risen
To its requisite tilt.
I could never unravel
His monosyllables
Within each yes and no
A world of possibilities
Tethered to scaly legs
And wings that lap the air
Like a basking tongue.
One might even mistake ritual
For sanity or happiness
If they are too proud
To admit the futility
Of their posture.
Perhaps he was empty
A blunt pencil vaulting
From page to envelope
With a single message between
A story, only two words long
A story, that says everything
And yet gives no hint
Of either ceremony or offense
I read that letter, its copies,
In his grimacing caricature
Knowing how very sorry
He must have been
To enter that nightmare alone
And I, with my coat on
Could not find the precise door
Otherwise, I would have followed.
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Rewrite.
mindlovemisery 