Insecticide #27

Swallow these words,
let them shatter as they drop
from an overflowing cup
of speech; and swallow
these impurities, to make them go away.

I will not
obsess. I will not,
guess what goes through your attentive consciousness.

Italian speech permeates my audible experience;
and when I purge myself of tears,
it is your face I beg for.

It is the loving grasp
of your hand in mine,
it is a solid and tangible love
I miss.

Not these drawn out speeches,
exchanges of words and tongues,
meaning essentially nothing.

Hard, factual love,
that you once offered me.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *