halfway house

What’s the good of rhyme or near rhyme

when there’s emptiness.

 

I’ve tried to, hard, nail

in a botched shack on a hill

in my head, meaning. Net

whatever specimens to fill –

a bowl, an aquarium – with.

 

What can rhythm do to tell you that I’m falling into.

I draw nice pictures of you with your hair pulled tight

& your face plastered to the wall.

 

When you wet yourself my first instinct is to mop the floor.

Is this idea right or wrong?

 

I’m turning in like I’m at the azimuth of understanding

nothing. Which is wise, probably.

 

 

 

 
http://bit.ly/2LJ2pvX

Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

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