Does your picture-frame hang down one side
for reason of the eye or for the corrected heart?
The table-cloth was quickly maladjusted –
does that mean that we’ll all sleep better
in service of some other disorder? Should
peace just sit everywhere it isn't welcome
at wrong angles, every wrong side, willing
the instruction of luck – does it matter now
that there's so much more to wish? Are
legs too short for the journey they make –
consequences too sudden for the balancing
of love and the rest of it, it weights us so…
…you want to know why I don’t write light
about the birds the flowers the little children
holding hands waiting for the yellow bus
we saw last week – that crashed at the bend
killing all but Lucy sitting next to her friend.
And why I don’t extract their last happiness
preceding the tragedy, from the orange satchels
containing their shit school’s awful lessons of the day
which afterwards by a miracle were strewn in rows
Lucy’s next to her deskmate Sally’s – one talking
the other one not listening anymore blah blah
something about the radio still playing their song.