Infrequent is my heart...
is the rain...
the sullen part
of every beating fist
against my windowpane,
renouncing all my dreams, my claims,
as if the drops' joyless sound
could split ambition halfway down,
make one part stray like stray balloons,
the other mocking (mere buffoons).
The clown of hope, lost in a crowd,
paints his face orange (loud),
so garish that the image stuns
that part of me devoted to fun,
for the moppet is tossed from here to there,
raggedy moppet who fears flame's glare,
who moves silhouetted across the walls
and sneaks under doors, along dark halls
and whispers to the dead in a far-off place
and sings them to sleep with: "It's no disgrace
to fall like you fell with your hands so bony,
your eyes shut tight and your heartbeat stony!"
Little prophet with buttons for eyes:
snip out your tongue and a roomful of lies
flit in the air like flighty ghosts,
land in the butter, spread on toast.
Infrequent little cups of truth
pass by my mouth, sweeten my tooth,
infrequent as the beating part
of every man's still thirsty heart.
