There is a music to this sadness.
In a room somewhere two people dance.
I do not mean to say desire is
everything.
A cup half empty is simply half a cup.
How many times have we been there and
not there?
I have seen waitresses slip a night's
worth of tips into the jukebox, their
eyes
saying yes to nothing
in particular.
Desire is not the point.
Tonight your name is a small thing
falling through sadness. We wake alone
in houses of sticks, of straw, of wind.
How long have we stood at the end of the
pier
watching that water going?
In the distance the lights curve along
Tampa Bay, a wishbone ready to snap
and the night riding on that half
promise,
a half moon to light the whole damned
sky.
This is the way things are with us.
Sometimes we love almost enough.
We say I can do this, I can do
more than this and faith feeds
on its own version of the facts.
In the end the heart turns on itself
like hunger to a spoon.
We make a wish in a vanishing landscape.
Sadness is one more reference point
like music in the distance.
Two people rise from a kitchen table
as if to dance. What do they know
about love?
------By Silvia
Curbelo
没有评论:
发表评论