When life is made not of decorum, but its lapses
how am I to sit and calmly tolerate
a refusal to makes the leap beyond mere synapses
and engage the deeper chasms of a fate?
You’re a secret-cliché-agent, every instinct seeming dual
I keep expecting a sudden burst of mirrors in your hall,
your ellipses as uncanny as a young linguistic rule.
I think I might be done if you hadn’t been so tall,
so handsome, so funny, and so inventive,
you played the game in ways that never bored,
I’ve tolerated more from you than from other lovers—
(if only once you’d been like them and snored,
I could long ago have punctured my illusions
and spared us all these lame effusions)
No comments:
Post a Comment