Wednesday, October 23, 2013

The Night of the Sorrowful Grace

Truth to tell is easily
Come by. Lies to embroider
(And when was the last time you
Embroidered anything more
Daring than a small sampler
Exclaiming out cross-stitched thoughts
You thought were clever, if that?

[I'm unkind, I know, unkind
And unknown, given over
To bad parenthetical
Groans of expostulation,
Excused slightly, if at all,
By the fact of having lived
A parenthetical life

{Not marginal, mind you,
I wouldn't claim a status
As fashionable as that,
All retro as a vinyl
Pillbox hat, boxed and shrink-wrapped,
Just a sort of encysted
Existence in the middle

Of things past, forgettable,
Res gestae, as yearbooks say}.].)
Are the rarest creations,
Those daring fictions despised
By gods and cosmologists
Who want their thread counts threadbare
And faithful, thin but untrue.

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