not so old to yet be sick of yourself
the everyday way you do things
leave them wanting, whoever they are
take in an old tom because you cannot bear
to come home to an empty house, you leave his balls on
so he sprays and sprays until you lock him out
sit in an empty house deaf to his howls
just outside the door
not so late to find someone new,
abandon all your old protection.
It will all be different this time
the only past the one you begin now
a rosary you slide around and around in your palm
the beads all exactly alike to your blind fingertips
Take comfort in this new suit of clothes
stiff with factory starch, bright with lack of history
Stunning. I can’t stop reading this gorgeous poem.
This appeals, even if it came through all chopped up in odd breaks. (The last line read as Hi Story, for example.) that threw me off for a second. Very interesting. I can’t even figure out how to describe it, but funky patterning of lines comes to mind.
Thanks. For some reason this had the dread