Month: December 2012

I Can’t

I can’t write you a poem so good
the words of which would
flit fly glide off the page and
with the vibrancy of those
greater, heavy-with-life voices
sing themselves to you
like lovers tender love songs; I can’t
make the sea bow at your feet for a moment’s tickle
—like water-feathers—
and just as quickly send it all away
every last drop and quake
when you’ve laughed a short, candy laugh; I can’t
break your name into mountain shelves
so that the odd amateur climber, weighed down by
cold cheese sandwiches and equipment
in the brand new, expensive
light-in-the-dark backpack
—he’ll use it only once—
would know that my love once burned alive, and he’d care little,
but that’s beside the point; I can’t
install speakers in every city square and town
and connect them all so
in the microphone feed I could scream:
“I love her! I love her!”
and stop only when I have
made the world listen,
my lungs sting,
and the old men in the park startled; I can’t
on a stage and for a crowd
sing you a love song with
bright warm lights in the background and
my silhouette sharply defined, lines black on
blackest night-black; I can’t
write a big book which parses
the very meaning of life with the deft,
clean
sword-slice sharp
brush-strokes of the Great Writer
the Linguist, Philosophy’s Heir
and dedicate it to only you; I can’t
every day make small gestures
the simple, meaningful kind, the kind that
others would marvel at, envy you for; I can’t
make an exhaustive list
of the things I wish I could do for you
because if your happiness is mine
then I’m very, very selfish.

I can’t
I know I can’t
but I want to.
Isn’t that the point?

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