is it the music,
or,
is it the lyrics,
and
the bones, three
small
bones in my ear,
that
are in my head,
or
is it the poetry
you
stir in my heart
in me,
no not you love,
or
you my lover,
but
the pictures that
a
line of words drawn
can
make on the sands of
time
and again spoken
read,
aloud as if we would
ever
be in the same room,
at
the same time, staring,
into
the others eyes, yours
so
pure and mine so soiled,
by
all that has been read
only
saved by the sounds
of
you walking in the
garden,
and the sounds of the
words,
when said together,
hard
constant consonants,
soft
vowels, like vixens
whispers
that vibrate the bones,
in
my broken hard hearted head,
hold
my hand, say the words with
me,
of poets who write through
tragedy,
of poets who write drunk poetry,
sobering
thoughts while living life while
living
a life, that does not satisfy, that
is
not lived one moment at a
time,
peace full pools shimmering
to
the words of the poet, prose
of
the poet, rhyme over reason-
able
verse in life's worst disasters.
Hold me.