There is no rhythm at all
In the platoons of this verse
Which sings about despair
In erroneous grammar.
No signs of that perilous
Indoctrination along
Highways crammed with
Attempts to transport
Oneself to places
Better than our own,
Justified but dumb
Not any less.
I will follow their trail
Soon in the afternoon
Of this aftermath
Of screaming confusion.
Garden parties look
Like my mind in winter
With flying hanging
Baskets, set on fire.
Now that I’ve finally
Seen you I cannot say
Whether I’m sure, unsure
Or simply confused
About being here,
Leaving from here
Or being there.
My face writes messages
That I cannot sustain.
Ironically I should
Stop speaking because,
Like drums that
Disappear from hearing
Distance,
My words are falling
Apart upon their
Writing.
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