From The Other Side of Sleep
We throw away our best lines
in casual repartee'.
I say to you
I am no longer saving
for a rainy day.
The devil beats his wife
while voyeur sun
peeps from the thundercloud
or sends a bolt of lightening
to burn away a shroud.
Well, should I not speak at all?
and so conserve
the log of thought
for some long wintery night,
then throw it on the flame
to watch it blaze
before the dazzled eyes
we tried to close,
before the prickling ears
we sought to stop.
Hush, hush, my soul;
these sputterings are unwise.
See, while we contrive
the fire dies.
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