Monday, March 26, 2007

Clapboard

My heart is made of clapboard, though it shines
Like ice-cold water in a mountain spring,
And bristles when it ought by right to sing.
My inner world, built to its own designs,
Meets no one's standards, and has faulty lines.
I was awakened by a hornet's sting,
Which burned, and itched, and made my poor ears ring
Until I heard buzzsaws among the pines.

What do I know? And what did I forget?
My circulation isn't very good
(My heart is made of clapboard), and the wood
Is dark, cold, savage, terrifying, wet.
Are you still happy that we've never met?
And what else have we both misunderstood?

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