THE MAN WITHOUT BOOKS
I compiled my hurt and hesitation and put them
between covers, and then ran off along my way.
The blistering heat of some searing new night
had already wetted my brow. A tankard
of loneliness, throw that in.
-
Sometimes the things we carry aren't worth a
damn : the charmed lightning of a dance, the
cute curtsy of some new lassie. Tissues to
the heart, and new forms to the tailor.
-
There's nothing the matter with wanting, there's
nothing the matter with need. Both of them line
up under a wayward vine - the small, painted
fence of some madman's community garden.
No comments:
Post a Comment