Lover’s block is not writing. Question:
When is an artist happy?
When they don’t make art.
I haven’t written for three
free-falling weeks and South Korea
seems a soft shadow away,
the Soldier tucked away
with all the other rainy-day monsters.
I’m happy to be quiet now, a silence
born of putting sad things back;
They are in my attic boxes. How can
it be that I fell
inelegantly, stupidly in love
as if his heart were a storm drain or
(worser phrase) a manhole and
I was the dumb broken ankle
that resulted? How can
everything be fresh-hued – even Wednesdays (day of birth,
Humpday, universal hate-day)?
That’s the look
That’s the look of –
I’m confident he will never read this.
I am so sure of this one,
He doesn’t even have a codename.