a simple thing

the anatomy of a word--
love, backwards evol

recently

seen in a leroi jones
poem. i write with heart

and bleed the intangible
(feeling)

thinking my hairs standing
on edge
are reason enough to trade
two truths-- lonely

and dull (my mind)--
for one lie...

the simple things
don't matter to me,

like a postponed reply
from my muse or the need
to feel warm lips
in the midst of january cold.

the memory of emptiness
is embarassing, even more
that no one is watching

my hands mold a companion
out of thin air.

the simplest thing--
a green light changing
from yellow to red,

i go from there to
meet a simple end
in the intersection
of a forgotten stanza,

where the bones of
a word are buried,
where nothing said
is too much to hear,

a would-be death
to remember.