A soft breeze with the slippery concrete black and full of muddy slush,
|
contrasting with the hoarfrost,
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clean and hung on a tunnel of silent shivering trees
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(the ones you said you'd like to be),
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and the birds that screamed at the sun
|
now buried deep down below the ground,
|
beneath the snow, I press my shoulder to this wall between us.
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I know you are behind me and I press my shoulder to this wall,
|
determined not to turn around.
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I do and see you standing,
|
still that statue that I molded in my mind to kiss,
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so beautiful you'll never move again.
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Someplace far away, at some sad table littered with chipped plates,
|
with bad light,
|
in 48 frames from a movie on the cutting room floor,
|
you said "True meaning would be dying with you",
|
and though I wanted to, I did not smile.
|
But now I will give up on this wall that I have fought with,
|
never uncover meaning behind our rich words.
|
If I could I would make you a raging river,
|
with angry rapids, supplied with rain,
|
so you could always meander
|
and forever be able to run away
|
without contending with myths wrongly interpreted, with pain.
|
A harsh wind.
|
|
-----------------
|
Without Mythologies
|
The Weakerthans |