the eternal desert
rain in the first grey light of a
friday morning
and the space between us defined by
nothing but emptinessthe air burned
where we've touched itmy fingers moving slowly over
the memory of your shapecrawling silently to the point where
the poem
and the reality separatethe endless hours of mindless anger
spent staring at blank pagesthe sound of interstate traffic
and of three different clocks
the sound
not of anything in particular
but of everything
and the way that no room is left for wordsthe way that things matter
when they're all you havethe way they fade
and who i hate is never clear
and who i love is never certain
and it's here that i finally realize how
lost i really amit's here that one of us says
i wish you were dead
and waits for an answerand silence is as
bitter a victory as any
