Send in the clowns

A Little January Music


To be unshaped by the crooked world
is to be misshapen;
To be untwisted is a
curse not easily broken.
"Woundless" is a freakish silver rail that stretches
for miles in burgeoning green-beginnings that remain
their own ends.

Broken
is the order of the day,
outside of which, what have i to say,
or you, what you?

Seasons come, and come, and come.
What is seen or heard?
That snow falls in winter, and nights are long.
That summer months are fleeting.

Between these, all allusion and metaphor,
undoing and undone.

The only thing for me
is me,
or you,
what you?

With all these twisted years and
breaking selves is myhistory comprised,
expendable, glass-tinkling lives,
except for one who bids me breathe but one more breath,
the hope of one more breath that you implore,
the hope of you and not much more
desired, despite the seasons, despite such misshapen
expectation, your hand in mine, perfect,
inside a winter railway station.