One day, the words for you will flow,
so gentle as a curving brook;
will fall in startling sunlit drops
to meet the river-bed below.
Words framed to fit the tale we told,
we shrieked, we spilled on gin-stained shoes;
a tale we built up, dream-by-dream,
then tore down, and will not re-use.
Such small streets spied us, care-free, tread
on fingers, toes, on me, on you -
looked on, without forewarning of
the verse you spoke, which then condemned.
A lover's tale, a sisterhood
unmatched by music's free-jazz son.
We tugged our umbilical rope -
it snapped; he laughed; you fell; who won?
The price of freedom is regret;
use of a limb no longer there.
One chain thrown off; a new one wrought –
old hopes, old needs no longer met
What else but men can cause a wedge?
Corrode a friendship loved and true?
No words, none yet, come cast their light
on life in our Giovanni’s room.
No comments:
Post a Comment