our word most certainly each the last.
today we threw out love
and instead rode our high horses ably
into the jester's parade.
i'd like not to be thought of like that;
i held my wary tongue, wavering.
i know the limits of this, and i've received
every bit of it on another shore:
the piercing of a well-timed heart,
the assassination of a beat-bitten soul.
so i need a sort of puerile grace now,
something delicate to counteract the
greed of knowing what's best for everyone
(you only ever know what's best for you
and that's a fortunate science).
i fold in threes, triangle faces and fingers
keeping me from lashing out.
this isn't my desire, to mudsling, to steal the throne.
i cried yesterday so i'm not a martyr now.