The mirrors and the unacknowledged nods.
|
Dial tones and license plates.
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The words you didn't choose.
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Everything the day's too small to hold spills on to the dusk,
|
and shorts the evening's fuse.
|
So you fumble for a voice and sing "Happy Birthday."
|
Read it to yourself again.
|
The stories always end the same.
|
He can't stay and she won't run,
|
and fear is where they're calling from.
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Staunch the blood from countless tiny cuts.
|
We're all out of bandages.
|
The heaters rattle taunt.
|
Sifting through translucent shards of glass,
|
looking for a filament that lit the life you want.
|
So you stumble for the phone, grasp the cord and pull.
|
Will your readership complain the stories always end the same?
|
She can't stay and he won't run, and fear is where they're calling from.
|
Afraid is where you're calling from.
|
|
-----------------
|
Uncorrected Proofs
|
| The Weakerthans |
