Thursday, May 11, 2006

Terza Rima

Follow me until romance makes you weaker.
I will leave you there, wounds like blooming patience—
even marks on your hands will seem much meaker

once your pathos bleeds through its adolescence.
Stains you said would fade won’t, in fact they’ll brighten.
Time will cause your unnecessary conscience

pain in forms that seem fair; the sky will lighten:
marigolds in the fields you thought you burned may
simply look you up, call you. Don’t be frightened.

No one wants your inheritance. Your false prayer.
Say you finally choose the right one. They’ll laugh…
Lonely honeydew, lonely practical pear.

Sad to watch as you traipse the lawn for milk baths.
Sad to see how you fold your arms of milkweed.
You are loyalty muted, kind sans serif

need. I’d pull you from fear, but fear is your seed.
Make me stop it before I can’t. You have to
give me reasons to fight the flowers, Pansy.

I am not enough fuel to burn their roots. You
Are. If only you knew. We left you speaker…
Deaf to that underwhelming follow through.


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