This poem is not about you.
These words are an arrow shot through
The black canvas of night
Which leaves a white hole that you call the moon.
These lines are a leafless tree dying on a coppered plain,
A claw clutching at empty metallic overhead blue
Attached to an underground body writhing in pain,
In the last clonic spasms before it gives up the fight.
This tree was not planted; it just grew.
I alone am the one to impugn.
This is not at all about you;
This poem was never about you.
This hand on your knee
Is also not about you.
This touch will not set you free
From imagined bonds of hopeful patience.
And all my deliberate reticence
Is not enough time to infuse
Your eager numbness with enough feeling to know to refuse
The tap tap tapping of my fingers on your thigh.
This was always just a bundling of words that must end with a sigh
You have a special gift for bundling words.
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