It’s called waiting.
It’s called waiting, it’s called writing
Long soliloquies with no place to go
But to open ears in their muslin clothes
And cast within your curtain-hair
Which, tangled, drips from your chin
There must be an answer
At least.

One year ago I watched in horror as hand collapsed into hand,
By the line above the sea where I pined and opined,
But no sapling like that had ever grown.
I should have known
Your defenses were impenetrable.
It’s called waiting,
driven by one word into madness
and consecration
of my imaginary soul.
I tried in vain to force my hand,
which precipitated the fall.