Imagine a chalk outline like
what you get at a crime scene and
the space where the body used to be.
Now it’s a-buzz with cicadas,
shaking up a muted din.
That’s what deafness sounds like.
(I’m sorry you had to repeat yourself.)
Coincidence is an artefact of
the mind that neglects to shrug on a coat
then complains bitterly through frostbitten
imprecations and impenitent sighs.
Maybe this is all I can be,
a ghost haunting my own life.
(I’m sorry I wasn’t in view enough.)
I guess one can evince too much in
the way of interest or not enough.
What’s to learn? It’s why I’m needy and
all I fuster is passive aggression.
This is not a mid-life crisis. It’s a
crisis of faith… and I’m afraid.
(I’m sorry I nudged the human race.)
I numbly twig to the Horned God’s clopping.
Before the end he gores me mumly,
and still they won’t condole with me.
Who was ever there that could’ve been? But
it really doesn’t matter now. Has it
ever? I fear the finality and release.
(I’ve lost conviction in this faceless night.)
by TONY SINGLE
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