4/22/05

The song is an evasion
but the singer wears a loose tired skin
and the pale woman
tries to smooth it, tries not to hum.

The song is an excuse
for shortcomings, lack of forethought,
an inability to feel complete
-ly. The absent lover breaks a bowl.

The song, oft-repeated, sung over,
hung on its own notes, drunk,
now stale. She takes up
arms. Faithful is not the same as true.

The song is over, the singer sung
almost out of being, the bottom rung
of the laddered scale no longer visible.
What once was multiplied
is now quite easily divisible.