It's a palpable wrong, suited for diving, from suicide to Falun Gong
and the rageful river, Decepticons, All-Blacks kicking and scoring.
It's lost evidence, collections with lots of holes in them, missing.
It's the lack of momentum, laws that can't counter inertia, idling.
It's the list of stereotypes from every Irish novel, immutable.
It's the voyeur in love with every Irish thriller, beside a setter.
It's a shame the canal wasn't dug deeper. It was my pleasure.
It's a grounded enemy and soldier of fortune, waiving torture.
It's because I don't know how to begin writing a poem
Without providing some ridiculous context to hold your hand
And walk you through the wide halls, narrow sounds and threats
Of opinion, assaults on your character and capacity for feeling.
It's because you'll skim past the prepositions and settle on adjectives
That you agree with in your own use and context, arriving at a thesis:
It's too bad we've worked this long in vain, and for only artifice.
No comments:
Post a Comment