Aug. 25, 2010
I want to shake off your words and set life free,
feel the raindrops fall in Spain, know that you care
beyond the babble – I loathe its tyranny,
the studied separate sounds of the word “fair.”
You dissect the syllables and miss the sense
within the sentence of a well-clad frame.
A seamstress must always view at a distance
the total effect of her tiny needle’s reign,
yet you, so long enamoured by the small,
smart, comfortable hems of simple one
can’t hear the intonation in a call,
“Good morning,” sweet and subtley homespun.
Words are a sort of fashion – you’re obsessed
with their beauty, but look at my face and see the rest.