Maybe we you us But not everyone except Everyone else seemingly set One could romanticize the shipbells Out of somebody else's grocery, sex shopping, life cleaning, bills Of sail. When they had fresh grapefruit it was nothing like you not having Scurvy, with or without the vodka. Your friends Did they still say things (?) and the masses— No, one didn't want to picture that vast Writhing. Self-love is better left to this selective peculiar: One shelf over, top shelf. The yeats, the years, none of it More real than this. The judgment, the particular partings: Reading a new yorker article about you. Reading. An article. A small monster at my toe. There was once a long lusty list but The only thing s/he had on me was feet. I went to course, to game, to College. The epiphany was not worth dwelling (placement word of Your choice here). Not to speak of, or the her, him, him before him, your last Lover but, "seeing someone else right now"? Mostly, the possessive pronoun "Her" in the next clause. Whose unfairness? Be spoken and be longing. (An embarrassment of melons and heavily salted meats.) The thing you will miss was being sexy, you will forget that you went Forgetting all along; the whole ride. Going, going. Not coming. Reading, Too closely, will fail my the measure of some treasure You believe exists, but how? Morning was the only mooring: feeling, Thinking, seeing no one. Right Now. Or now. Barely tolerated, living.
My Love Sent Me a List
O my Love sent me a lusty list,
Did not compare me to a summer's day
Wrote not the beauty of mine eyes
But catalogued in a pretty detailed
And comprehensive way the way(s)
In which he was better than me.
"More capable of extra- and inter-
Polation. More well-traveled -rounded multi-
Lingual! More practiced in so many matters
More: physical, artistic, musical,
Politic(al) academic (I dare say!) social
(In many ways!) and (ditto!) sexual!"
And yet these mores undid but his own plea(s)(e)
And left, none-the-less, the Greater Moor of me.
|About this poem:|
"No, really, a found poem; however, I also find, that if one reads thirty or so Shakespearean sonnets in a row (out loud), something is bound to happen."
Olena Kalytiak Davis