The urge for divulgation
Is almost as great as
The desire to not
Want to know.
Of this letter here,
Neat and perfumed,
My better angel goes
“Throw it away,”
For opening it will
Only draw out words
I can never say.
And those phone calls
Needing to be made
Will only skirt the silence
That hangs like a
Bottomless valley.
I so want to touch
What’s missing
With my hands
And to prove with my tongue
I know what’s unsaid
Inside your head.
But these are the things
That must stay elusive,
As they sit on the other side
Protected.
What they laugh and cry about
Will only draw you in
To an impenetrable mystery,
Like the flight of upward flocks,
But it’s one you carry with you,
Like the tune hummed by
The homeless man
As he rearranged the
Trash in the can,
A part you’re now on stage
To play with all your feeling,
But the only lines
You have to say
Are your own.
