You who think I find words for everything,
this is enough for now.
Cut it short, cut loose from my words.
You for whom I write this, in the night hours, when
the wrecked cartilage sifts round the mystical jointure
of the bones, when the insect of detritus
crawls from shoulder to elbow to wrist bone,
remember, the body's pain and the pain on the streets
are not the same, but you can learn from the edges that blur.
Oh, you, who love clear edges more than anything,
watch the edges that blur.
[CLAPPING HANDS]
Thank you.