To the poet
The walls dont talk
anymore than the mirror
records every face it reflects.
Beyond the words that bleed
from the walls steamed to peel
the paper that I pasted
to make a decorators statement
there is a blank that waits
for explanations
If nice guys finish last
then the paper hangers
get the loudest laugh.
At her casement, a love song
Sometimes the song becomes
counter-weighted with the secrets
it must hold back, swallows its
own tongue like the lead that keeps
the double hung sash positioned securely
in its track. Pretty panes will always
be cradled in the frame, slide upon invisible
ropes and pulleys, cushioned from the fall.
Laced with the delicate web that traces
shadows upon walls and tiles; the glass
admits the light as if its innocence is sufficient
dispensation. Its fragile clarity adds nothing
to the view, but rings it all with the simulacrum of truth
while unsung weights keep faith, with silence like a lay.