Tzara
Continental
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2005
- Posts
- 7,646
4
Confused Poem
I didn’t know how to lay
my heart across the border
where it could actually touch
your beautiful fingers. So,
of course, I hid myself
among the rocks of mischief,
never understanding
which words probed or pained
or whether any words were anything
other than deft marks on a cave
Archaeologists would later think
some graffited midden-heap.
You are married.
That is neither accusation
nor excuse—just reminder
that whatever pleasure we might seek
is consequential to our others.
I do not want to hurt mine.
More would I hate to hurt yours.
I think I only want
to hear your voice, clear
in brisk, clean air
saying, unequivocally, I love you,
not that you do, of course,
nor I reverse. But yet, I do.
I know this is confusing.
What love I have
is not sufficient. I want again,
or, especially, and,
as if you might somehow be satisfied
to be a coat I might wear
only on alternate Sundays,
when the only thing I really want is to kiss your iambic feet
all days, and celebrate their patter.
Oh, my. Oh, my. The end.
Confused Poem
I didn’t know how to lay
my heart across the border
where it could actually touch
your beautiful fingers. So,
of course, I hid myself
among the rocks of mischief,
never understanding
which words probed or pained
or whether any words were anything
other than deft marks on a cave
Archaeologists would later think
some graffited midden-heap.
You are married.
That is neither accusation
nor excuse—just reminder
that whatever pleasure we might seek
is consequential to our others.
I do not want to hurt mine.
More would I hate to hurt yours.
I think I only want
to hear your voice, clear
in brisk, clean air
saying, unequivocally, I love you,
not that you do, of course,
nor I reverse. But yet, I do.
I know this is confusing.
What love I have
is not sufficient. I want again,
or, especially, and,
as if you might somehow be satisfied
to be a coat I might wear
only on alternate Sundays,
when the only thing I really want is to kiss your iambic feet
all days, and celebrate their patter.
Oh, my. Oh, my. The end.