What’s the good of rhyme or near rhyme
when there’s emptiness.
I’ve tried to, hard, nail
in a botched shack on a hill
in my head, meaning. Net
whatever specimens to fill –
a bowl, an aquarium – with.
What can rhythm do to tell you that I’m falling into.
I draw nice pictures of you with your hair pulled tight
& your face plastered to the wall.
When you wet yourself my first instinct is to mop the floor.
Is this idea right or wrong?
I’m turning in like I’m at the azimuth of understanding
nothing. Which is wise, probably.
Originally posted on http://poetry.org.nz/percy64/halfway-house/