Sometimes in the jangle
of the day
Are the words, I love you.
But what is the truth?
Being truthful?
Or was it the moment I let you down
The breeze stirs
on top of the river
And blows on
The fish move faster
in the current
Slack and then snap
angrily at the darts
plopping in among the surface
Is this a memory?
A history of thoughts
Dropped to the enemy
A ghost without
Its muscles its bones
Nothing but a husk
And here we think
It to be—know it all
The last two days
You have gone mad
And once again I
Cannot help you
Though I be still
Fishing—
Writing on this page
Flesh and bone
and mostly spirit.
