"clownlike" poems
Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark, as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fools' Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.
Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.
12.9k
If I can see the end clearly --
the sum of your disappointments finally adds up to the courage to set yourself free --
should I nonetheless walk on,
celebrating each closer to the last moment,
drinking the cup to the very dregs,
mindfully aware this bottle shall be the last?
Would it be more manful or mindful to loose you now?
If that is our inexorable destination?
Can I host that party, clownlike, weeping on the inside?
When I know that my voice grates on your ears?
When you perceive only aggression, judgment and negativity in my words?
When you believe I don't even try to understand?
Can I be fully present in those final moments
climbing the gallows of our love,
mindful of the coming loss,
clinging to the vestige of Pandora's final gift:
What if we changed the road we're on?
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 5:46 PM UTC