We bear the guilt of our worn out
shop-window eyes, of time squandered
We go through winter in each others’
rooms, and warm our fingers
in the mild fire of spring,
again and again we lower our exhausted faces,
ashamed at times
that we don’t know how to be
what we are.
Stacked into apartment blocks
or locked up in condominiums,
we are delicate flowers,
we seem spotless but our
hearts are often sullied.
We wait to be seated
at seaside restaurants,
with loose talk,
and love despite it all,
love spoken in whispers
for fear of being woken.
Beasts roar in the dark of the room
in magnetic jungles that we document
sampling in high definition
the distant fright of distant things,
screened in the eerie plasma light
that flickers on the sofa.
We’ll die without again walking
the firm ground of the savannah.
We’ll forget about Lucy, her frail,
we’ll also forget her father’s
and wherever we lie down
we’ll always be a long way from home.