The Wilting of Conversation
I wish I had excuses,
White petals decay from stranger’s eyes.
As I assume to water blossoms
With spit speech.
I do rehearse conversation
With the dirt.
By the time it understands
I am knee deep in mud.
It’s enough practice
To keep my vowels growing.
While I wake up each morning,
Look out my window
And recreate conversation
For footsteps in the snow.
That nauseating feeling
When I realize
I am narrating my own footsteps.
I know where they’ve been.
The truth is boring.
I practice in the mirror.
Decorate my reflection
With a bit of
Choice, spit, and relevance.
Flutter my eyelids
Till a lash breaks off.
Floats gently into my open palm.
I am shaking too much
To keep it in balance.
The wish falls with my spit.
I keep it there
And wait for mold to grow.
Everyone needs a best friend
That they can converse with.
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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
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(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Rainer Maria Rilke
(4 December 1875 – 29 December 1926)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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