sitting on the point
grass and sunburnt face and
your blessed smile, your promise
is it dust?
my tears say no, nothing is dust,
to ashes, to nothing
i weep

you never know what you're doing
litla stúlkan mín
or my
pitseleh
you sit and expressionless
tide comes in
covers my grief
i am xebeche

emotions running like dead tap
while i sin and wonder
and ashamed i hide my face
you tell me i'm not a man

i'm ashamed and strong but
secretly i wonder
if my very pilings of ego agree
simple plain heat stifles me
no figuration, only
tear
tear
tears tear me apart with my own
stupidity? maybe just grief ultimately
i don't/never knew

you speak but your language
is foreign and it is cryptic and it is
sickening only
i curse and curse to myself that
i only knew it would and is
coming to me.

06/23/2006

Posted on 06/23/2006
Copyright © 2025 Corey Lockaby