I wanted to
write you something
that said something
and I looked at your hands
like the losers of a street fight
beaten until they are no longer hands
and thought of nothing . . .
well . . .
nothing that would mean something
anything to you

and I looked at your mouth
that rolled like waves on a stormy day
in a movie
a celluloid memory that is blind to me
hanging like a silver ghost
tethered to the wall by the
wrong kind of light
and it rolled and pitched and
yawed until it was no longer a mouth
and I thought of nothing . . .
well . . .
nothing that would mean something
anything to you

and I looked into your mirror
that was a boomerang
a u-turn
a paddle ball in the hand of an
obsessive-compulsive mute
keeping the beat
like Belinda Carlisle
like Jane Wiedlin
and it came back to me again
again it came back to me
it came back again
to me
and I thought of nothing . . .
except . . .
anything that would mean something
anything to me

And I wanted to
write you something