Stretched out from reaching out
in a feather world.
So light, so not, so little of everything.
I break the wounds and open up.
Guilty.
Shallow flesh. Shallow needs.
Burnt paper words, a flow of ash.
Throwing away my magicians hat,
and giving in to a belief in the thing of things,
yeah, the thing that shows what is never mine.
Never mine when hello and good bye
are both the same.
This is conversation.
This is meaning.
This is the divide from country to country.
This is what it is when I speak too soon:
She nods and looks away.
Tries to find the page that has the phrase
for go away, and
I lower the words flaming between us,
try to find the speech my grandfather gave me,
and the culture wars rage,
and I don’t know what I did,
and she points down into the book,
shakes her head...
no, stay.
For now anyway.
