All Lines

I played a trick on you, a nasty trick
With gumballs, wool, and travesties of care,
As true as darkness in the empty air.
We never tried to beat you with a stick,
Or chide when you laid things on pretty thick
(You villains! villains! Strike me if you dare!),
So, nasty as it was, it ended there,
Until you called the cops. You make me sick.

You claim this is a matter of respect,
But you know better, don't you? There are folks
Who think the world is merely hubs and spokes,
But you know better. All lines intersect.
Keep listening. Resent lies. Rise. Reject
Revenge, and leave us have our little jokes.

The World Spun

As I looked over all the things I'd done
Since spring, since buds had sprouted in the trees,
Stamens and pistils, bears and bumblebees
And evenings with a little bit of sun,
I thought, Let's stop a moment. The world spun
Too fast. Though I remembered the deep freeze
With fondness, I hoped whole new histories
Would happen now. Why run so fast? Why run?

The autumn rains began: a single drop
Came down near where the giant bales were heaped,
Beside the towering harvest we had reaped.
The world spun; watching from the mountaintop
I flagged the brakeman, but he wouldn't stop,
So I threw caution to the wind, and leaped.

These People

The raucous expectation of delight
Gives way to overcooked satiety,
Revels give way to dark sobriety,
Urban renewal turns to urban blight,
Disaster to enchantment, day to night,
And hope to fear. Expect variety:
Loud songs, unpleasant faces, piety,
And negligence raised to an eerie height.

These people standing here in front of you
Are not a cross-section, fit for a poll,
But weirdos, oddballs, here and there a troll,
Unfit for anything, a fulsome crew
Of halfwits held in place with paper glue,
Despairing, like us, of becoming whole.

The Way You Lose

One more example of the way you lose
Is how you always seem to look at me
As if my pants were ripped below the knee
The way they were when I was nine. Confuse
Me with a child, insist I have to choose
Between your love and the Aegean Sea,
No more now than an azure memory
Of someone's mythological first cruise.

I don't see Theseus up on the cliff
Where once I saw his royal helmet shine
In sunlight just the colour of Greek wine,
Considering his father, tall and stiff
Against the sky, thinking What if — What if —
And mournfully discerning the wrong sign.