While the uncanny feeling between sadness
and lovers often takes us
we get in thicker sentiment.
The repetition of sounds or images plunges
between the covers
cold, and sparkling.
Best, however, is a profoundly true love
one above, where my fingers slice off his head.
This may explain why – in a heightened, artful
crying out I have always, despite your own voice –
given only poetry, not poets, the right word.
Finally a song of lament
changes in punctuation,
as a prose monologue,
becomes a dialogue
the parent-child
“kingdom,”
strong again.
