The Unwritten
They don’t write many books
about when the love dies
I tell em’ to picture the river
washing over the familiar rocks
The pull we feel to abandon
any sense of continuity
Our broken compasses
Our broken bastards
I tell em’ to picture the staircase
The charming squeak of a well worn
wooden step
The patient procrastination of a homeowner
unable to say the words
Until the foot falls through
“Maybe I was better without you?”
Nothing lived under the timely lies
and bedroom negotiations
Only the frigid image
of a running clock
Chasing all the words out of your mouth
I tell em’ to picture a room
In the type of darkness that leaves
poets without metaphor
And me without you
I tell em’ to close their eyes and listen
to the humble silence of empty bottles
and unmade beds
I tell em’ what I know
the little, the miniscule
of what I know
And I tell em’
To find the book
Of when the foot falls through
Our Messy Shoes
I read somewhere
that men are addicted to property
I say I’m addicted
to the thought
you won’t leave
I say I’m addicted to the voice
which stands where we’re supposed to sit
and tastes the color outside our invisible lines
I had a friend
fall in love with pills
Our homeless throats
beg for poison
I’m starting to wonder if
I should keep giving it
my spare change
I would like to think
home stayed in my back pocket
with a swiss army knife and a candy
But the sailors
tie their boats to a different port every night
So maybe all we know
is all we have
To lose and to leave
are twins separated at birth
And we can only hope
to recognize all that identical difference
They told me it’s rude
to stare at the ground
But a boy could forget to tie his shoes
and trip into all the gray
we carefully ignore
And my ship was built with your wood
I’ll hear your morning doubts
in the creaks underneath my feet
But I can’t hear the wind in my sails
or the boys’ shrieks
about their loose shoestrings
I read somewhere
that men are addicted to property
I say I’m addicted
to what we leave
William
He,
Who lost his brain in the clay
His mother stretched
And pulled with us
He,
Who knew right from left
The way we know yes from no
With a healthy skepticism
I’m not here to say he’s a better man
But he knew how to burn words
And the smoke never reached me
But it’s funny how clear he looks backwards
The way his hair ran from his head
Like it was searching for a new home
A new something
The way his chin carried a righteous ignorance
Oh, the danger of learning not to care
I’m not here to say he’s a better man
But his colors flew
While their words fell flat
Fell still
I’m not saying he’s a better man
But we’re not all happy poems
And I like to read about the boy
Who grew old
Putting one foot in front of the other
I’m not saying he’s a better man
He,
Was nothing but the river
Recklessly running to the rocks
Begging for a feeling
He,
Was nothing but the wood
Burning to feel black
To feel used
He,
Was nothing
But a better man