cause
Not because we know any better
and not because
there is enough politics
in the colour of flesh
to last a lifetime
even though silence
is also a stain, and we’d
rather breed questions
than children
how many
of our days and nights
squandered, bidding for
this quiet attention
to what could be
already we ask too much
for permission, when we are not
the ones who need forgiveness
so much has already
been lost, and we are only
just beginning to bleed
so not because verse has no future
film budgets are miniscule,
we have no stamina for prose
far too many people
will never actually read this
since words have their own
particular lust, respawning
in the least expected places
despite the imperfectability of joy
the transience of skyline,
and the persistence of hope
since it didn't do anything
having come this far
made nothing happen
let this poem be.
30 August 2001 12:44 hours
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