There, and I'm feeling like the last in
The long list of
Cons
Watching you as
You
Became a dangling modifier
Off the arm
Of some other
Pro. Now, not
To disparage musicians
But they have a way of fucking
Up a perfectly good sentence.
They'll distort and bend it
To their music til it isn't a sentence but
A lyric, contained. I'll refrain
From judgement. This con
Thought he knew how to break
You out of those bars.
I was off-key, of course.
Don't you know the rules?
"I before he," except you don't see
Relief. Believe and you shall receive
Me, speaking in apostrophe
Which, actually, is the exact opposite of possession,
Love.
It's projection! Upon or to
The audience
Not there, You
Drop the girl's
Watching you as
You
Became a dangling modifier
Off the arm
Of some other
Pro. Now, not
To disparage musicians
But they have a way of fucking
Up a perfectly good sentence.
They'll distort and bend it
To their music til it isn't a sentence but
A lyric, contained. I'll refrain
From judgement. This con
Thought he knew how to break
You out of those bars.
I was off-key, of course.
Don't you know the rules?
"I before he," except you don't see
Relief. Believe and you shall receive
Me, speaking in apostrophe
Which, actually, is the exact opposite of possession,
Love.
It's projection! Upon or to
The audience
Not there, You
Drop the girl's
curl of misplaced hair and you get
The girls,
The concrete made abstract made concrete
Walking on her (their) two (hundred) feet
Punctuating the blank page of snow as she goes
Dancing in ellipses down
The sidewalk
And I'm paused behind,
Or maybe ahead,
The girls,
The concrete made abstract made concrete
Walking on her (their) two (hundred) feet
Punctuating the blank page of snow as she goes
Dancing in ellipses down
The sidewalk
And I'm paused behind,
Or maybe ahead,
Waiting for her to catch up.
Stop!
Don't ticket my poem,
Meter maid! Just because
You're better read and better bred?
Please. I was just waiting here a minute.
But it's too late.
She's a sentence already handed down,
How dare I edit
Her memory, her birthday:
Her mittened hands,
Her intermittent laugh,
Her heartbeat iambic
(I counted on it for too much).
A shoe comes untied as we walk
And as she flies down to lace it
I pause to see the wind whip
Its fingers through her long hair,
And there's a rhythm to it,
As if she, too, had come untied.
I told her and she laughed, standing
Back up, braided and brave.
How dare I see discipline, then,
In the curled comma of her finger
folding and unfolding, inviting,
The always guessing
And hopeful suspense
Of her two eyes
Cocked sidewise;
Winking, she tells me
"I'm poison-laced, dear."
And again her eyes are open (my favorite couplet):
I kiss her before handing her the gift and smile,
"Last lines should be like shoelaces, not a stuck-on bow."
Stop!
Don't ticket my poem,
Meter maid! Just because
You're better read and better bred?
Please. I was just waiting here a minute.
But it's too late.
She's a sentence already handed down,
How dare I edit
Her memory, her birthday:
Her mittened hands,
Her intermittent laugh,
Her heartbeat iambic
(I counted on it for too much).
A shoe comes untied as we walk
And as she flies down to lace it
I pause to see the wind whip
Its fingers through her long hair,
And there's a rhythm to it,
As if she, too, had come untied.
I told her and she laughed, standing
Back up, braided and brave.
How dare I see discipline, then,
In the curled comma of her finger
folding and unfolding, inviting,
The always guessing
And hopeful suspense
Of her two eyes
Cocked sidewise;
Winking, she tells me
"I'm poison-laced, dear."
And again her eyes are open (my favorite couplet):
I kiss her before handing her the gift and smile,
"Last lines should be like shoelaces, not a stuck-on bow."
