and when it gets silent
she can’t ignore all the little truths collecting like stones undersea.
one: she always pretends she’s in love.
and in synthetic invention she can feel the weight of an ocean full of meaning
when maybe there is none
to sit outside in the night, to sit with the soul of pain
and not hassle it; to feel it like the passing of darkness into morning.
to wait, to wait under white sheets, within white walls,
with the hours, the tensed clinging, fighting; tones of words, of gut sounds sharper than truth.
to sit with it. sit with it long enough to feel you know it a little. you may feel it again, but maybe
you will be more at ease.
we will have our peace.
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.