IN WHICH YOUR ARMS ARE GONE (A POEM)
You are from Guernee but that’s not a place
You are in the form of an eel
You’re legs are nothing and your arms are nothing and there’s a time and place in which you will not be anything either
You’re best friend is a love and your love turns to me and cries out
“Nothing more from this can ever harm me.”
And then you don’t
You don’t pretend that living is easy
You don’t pretend that gray is good
That gray is right, because it’s in the middle of us
You’ve got gray hairs
You’re hairs are growing thin
Each day
Before the bus comes
You wonder if you’ve ever seen a rainbow
Like if it was ever there
