keith

Come to tattered fret-tings of deferent empire,
come to the scattered shattered noise of loss,
come to me and loud silence
I cry! I scream!

Telegraphs from inside--message received and lost,
blocked like a punch, delivering only a shuddering impact
Stagger back unchecked but still again--gloves raised,
chin upright, shoulders taught,
but the eyes give away the game
unceasingly frail.

Knowledge and knowing become naught and nothing,
in ice cube trays and laundry lists and telephone operations,
To-do or not and questions cease
various and sundry deaths lie at the door,
in shopping carts and mailbox-bombs,
the 90 day-trial that's never-ending.