While I type to you about pigeons
and you talk about an article
with my subject's first syllable,
just spoken differently,
our walls crumble
a Berlin sight
Caught in the east, I am liberal
and arts
You claim to be only a sum of your parts
So here is me proving you wrong
Sending the lyrics to a trampled-down song
Eleventh hours soothe the night
Letting our minds get our breathing right
I'm sorry for my preoccupations
My lover, he was an alcoholic
I'm sorry for all of the poetry, too
Which probably only puzzles and bothers and unsanctifies you
It's the least, it's the most, it's the worst kind of best I can do
Underneath it all, my parts are few
So subtract and add and pull me apart
That way I'll know I own a tangible heart

-c.j.