I am told that branches, once grafted,
will sing again, as was once,
they were willing to tell, this story
& I, a mere passerby, was told it.
My cell makes mute a youthful tone,
but I am not one to be trusted.
I have been incarcerated
for better things than you and she.
There is a crack, many, a forehead
and when that happens, you can't
expect love to find shape, formless
as the sea, the alphabet of graffiti.
I am most unlike an arrow,
or a progressing arrow, or a paragram
in the middle of a tortoise shell,
the keystone shape of myth.
I have not forgotten the words,
I have not, I have not forgot.
I have forgotten not, nor
have I, as it sounds, ever
& that is exactly where I stand,
never an inch, never any inch
closer to the next half-way point
where the tradition, the brick &
sea, engage in pageantry.
I was once in love with her,
her mouth wide on my wall,
drawn there as if I could almost speak.
Author Discusses Poems