ardent

calabrisio on the causeway
channel number 2 is what you wear
when you're not in town.

they come in pairs or clusters
taurusian horns or plastered cherries
scales or stingers or your last friendship

i was upset about it, till after midnight that nite.
then i breathed a sigh of relief. it's the letting go
that matters now-accumluated in the cracks
of your hand, linty and dark are the secrets
you longed to reveal. to someone. sometime.

bar of soap. smell of cranberries and work.
bucketfull of rasta mon. lite me the bobsled boys
give me an irish accent, a bit o the bloody blarney
that keeps me in line and waiting . these days
my poems always end too soon, but i really

don't believe in dragging out the agony any more
than it needs, to breath in and hold on again.