Wednesday, May 02, 2007


Sometimes, just like that,
they land--
no purpose, no excuses,
not even a clearing of the throat.
They just settle, and insist on being written.
No point--except the blankness of the night.
No value--except the nagging of the void.

And they lodge--
like her words, like that word,
like stuffed animals in tree branches.

Everybody is Pocahontas but me--
I clean chimneys,
I wait on the corner, expecting the rain.

Like that, just like that,
just like the words you never said because he's too young.
Meaningless, yet insistent.