I neither deserve mercy nor Do I often want it. Lie to me At midnight or before And set my patience free. No small amount of grace Is cast on fires to quench them So throw fear into your pace And let a story stem From the friction in your
Pulled up, messed up like a picture In crayon, outside the lines And without music Like a musician who Forgets his notes On his string bass. An about-face And a pink slip Politely. Quietly The side trip Into cold space Almost erased And anecdotes Put pieces back, all through The
But soft! What pause arrests my eyes While bringing worlds to reconcile My understanding of what lies Beneath the outward rank and file Of ordered earth and naked space? It causes time to stand aloof. It is unkind to rush the pace For wandering souls who search for truth. A
The flower, for her prince, bedecks herself In soft array of sweetest hues, withholds Her charms until the time has come to bloom In exchange for rings and things of gold. The prince, convinced his worth deserves her not, And that she is alone his own great love, Withholds his
There is no point in saying I like my coffee blacker Than most like it. I roast it like it Needs a dash of woodsmoke Curling In its flat broke Burning, scalding Ten-cent cardboard cups. And the jazz unfurling in the Night air Mingles with its hot mess flair And