I could start a poem if I wished to.
Something about the warm night air,
the rain, frogs, the exact climate.
Extend from there, the torn
social heart, missing love not
between men and women but
in more general terms: how
we miss the point and go sliding
helpless downhill, always the image
of a brighter place refreshing the idea
of what isn’t there: then a slick final
twist, dagger in the space
between semi and colon and fall
into reflective silence followed
(after a pause) by some applause.
- first appeared in New Coin