Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Still There

If a poem is successful, you can’t know from it what the poet thinks. You can only know what the poem thinks. Anon.
He comes and sits upon the bed.
I don’t think he is Hunger.
He isn’t pleading to be fed.

What accounts for all the blue?
Might he be Sorrow?
He says he simply likes the hue.

Is he Emotional Paralysis?
Dissociative Trance?
He says he’s not about analysis.

I tell him that I’m getting sleepy.
He doesn’t seem to care.
It’s all become a little creepy.

He’s still there.


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