the warm wood floor of the living roomour parents’ living roomwhen it was ourssitssome place in our headsmy headand my sister’s headas she talks to melong distance from the coastand dadour dadis asking us againto guess the presentsas he smiles at usand the treerises above us
i have not killedwith my own handsbut through neglect and cowardicei wish there was punishmentbut there is only rewardfor these actionsso it seemsthisis a dreadful placeand whygodsand heavenwere inventedand whywe snatchat words
I am still a little mad at you asi lift your head and kiss your lipsand they taste of blood and theglass is broken over the floor andshines from some light but it’sdark in here and classical guitarsare coming through the window areechoing their passion from yearsago but it feels like here thosenotes and all this glass and allthe soft parts of us that need tobe gathered up and might as well becollected in the stanzas of sometragically romantic song because atleast that wouldn’t make us seem sosmall left here in our mess smeared
The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,And the YearOn the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,Is lying.Come, Months, come away,From November to May,In your saddest array;Follow the bierOf the dead cold Year,And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling,The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knellingFor the Year;The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone
I never lost as much but twice,And that was in the sod.Twice have I stood a beggarBefore the door of God!Angels -- twice descendingReimbursed my store --Burglar! Banker -- Father!I am poor once more!
The weight of misfortune has stooped my shouldersBut I don’t intend to stop for a good while yet;I afflict my own destinyAnd don’t want anyone to mourn for my fate.I’ve made peace with God on my lossesAnd agreed with him on the epitaphsThat should be written about my senseless wars.