What to Do in These Circumstances
Dark water loads the clouds. Shall we slide down
the silver ropes, clink teacups in the crash,
run for our wits? Your face in splinter-flash
looks goddamn gorgeous—then a streak of frown
shatters the flimsy glass of tinker-town.
I tumble silent but I tumble rash,
gnashing my thoughts, for lack of else to gnash,
rolling around without a rule or gown.
When measure loses measure, that's called pride,
and that explains the slide.
It makes no sense but happens anyway.
I could load up the air with wails of why,
but that's as foolish as to say I'll try
to silently roll up my unsaid say.