Random Acts of Poetry
Years
Such is memory: sticky
lessons gilt-framed and recited,
or clinging and flaunted,
a stale perfume.
Who knew what you'd pursue,
with such feeble devotion?
Your words didn't serve
to fill a book;
there's never enough for a mad play.
No talking like a cellophane cat
or English chimpanzee
suffices.
White squares on a raw wall:
they slip away like scared fish.
Sunday, January 04, 2004
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