there, on the poplar,
you hung your harp
you had to leave

it would have been murder to stay
such a little choice, really
one step after another

it was written, written
in the lines of your palm
in the stars at your birth

in your desperate need to get away
(your need to have her all to yourself)
and now it is so much sand

washing out with the tide
a drowning man finally rid of his thirst
longing for a slow desert death.

--"I long for the good times"--
gone
gone (gone)

one time
two times
three.

6.

it is too late
you are set in place
a thread that changes color: blue

© 2004 by daniel ml. All rights reserved.