September [4] 2008


I’d rather suffer in poem

than sit in the pain of this wheel.

I seem to lead and pace

a pattern of self-disgrace,

the miracle (or malady?)

of power–

here we meet again,

at the perfect moment unaware,

is it I or you who reads minds?

I know where and when

you’ll be there

sponge-clean sweet,

know how happy and frightened 

you are to see me,

know the paralysis

that makes my stumbling attempts…


at least to me,

know the promises

you will never enact,

know the love

that will never be.



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