Thursday, March 8, 2012

'Poor Excuses' by Andrea Werblin


Because the clouds resemble fists splayed against a caterwauling

teenage sky &  fluky spring's a fluke of mud & construction,

a lie the mountains tell to each other and to fibs of rocky beach.

If I’m supposed to know, for example, why I'm here, an iceberg will

calve itself free of the mighty Arctic, leaking out secrets.

It should be that obvious, the way a body is

matinee to its own madness and fractured singing.

What if the body is a crater, not meaning to be

attracted to the rickety dark? Maybe it’s born greedy,

like a sea star. Maybe the body is maritime, an inlet

of devotion to chemical imbalance, & if only I can

dupe it into going steady, the two of us

shall never meet again, except as strangers.

Because trying to embrace life every single day

is boring, exhausting, pretty pointless if I’m honest,

I sometimes pretend a companion or two appears

in the fog, rolling in like newer reasons.

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