To Those Who Weep

Since we cannot, we cannot say – say what empties full meaning from the fist clenched tight – from one to another, look: we search for eyes behind eyes and throw the heart’s red blood into the furrowed brow of the poet Who can tell you why the refraction of light rays defines our humanity Who can tell you how a telephone rings and death awaits Who can tell you nicely that love is nice. But he can’t tell you why tears well in your eyes and fall to your lips and he can’t tell you how design holds firm when death holds sway and he can’t tell you nicely that love is nice. He is content to listen and touch your cheek with his own and in the still mirror of your tears reflect that furrowed brow. He will light a match and let it burn slowly, slowly – protecting it from the wind, holding it at just the right angle – then wet the tips of his fingers, and grasp the burnt-out end, watch the flame consume the full length, until the very last has scorched to black (the flicker, going – gone) until there is no more to burn. Cruel wind, I do not know where you blow from or how to shut the door against you; but in this precious room you force a nervous quiet, our hands at our sides, stifled for fear of cold, cold air.

 

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