in all the same ways
Well the Poems All Wrong go on about us. We're wrong too.
Stopped in corners to pee. Presently. About my discrimination
for you whom I like pretty well because you let me. But too
you are an attraction. I've never been one of them who'd shun
a good story for a meaningless mystery full of slop and too
many disconnections. Broken vows tunes covenants as conditions
you know. All that. It's just that. Well my stories too
can be taken as Discrete bits of something. Words & homespun
Artifacts. Or a jagged fence all rusted wood & wire & too
bloody spiteful for the simple blasted earth it's got to run
through. Forever it seems but I know better. My body's too
recently old for some lies. In any weather something goes on
touching something else even if you're not here. I'm not too
—hey it's going to rain all day—let's make a contribution.
If only to say I did. You made me. We had at last given to
the cause which—is it not finally the people the population.
They cried out so we answered not with deeds but with too
many words. Hush. Shut up. Be quiet. Can the noise, son.