... (xxii).

... sometimes--you just get a little frustrated.

Bah.

---

I don't want to hear your thoughts

or what you think of love

to me they're just as much

less--than the whining of the doves

I don't need to hear your dreams

they're about as near here as the sound

of the whurr and churr of the tires

grinding on the ground

and possibly a "pop" across the valley

I don't care for all the things

to which you've clung as best you're able

are as crumpled, as forlorn

as the wrappers are on the table

and across this space, your needs

in all their endless thronging

they fall down like an echo

air dissolves your longing

and you wonder how we're come here

this dry and silent space

and fearing, you throw time

as chains--to hold us both in place

but the years fall soft as the chimes

around the corner

and the world is moving brightly

on--behind your face

I hear you as you say

that you're frozen and on fire

and as I listen--all I pray

for is the turning of the hour.