Wonderful poem from the Book of Pain’s John Etheridge.
Poems have conversations between themselves
about us behind our backs, and what’s worse,
with total strangers. Yes, they lie meekly
enough on the page where we place them
but this is all a sham, because among themselves
they bunch into cabals and define us and measure us
and to be honest, find us generally wanting—
although wanting of what they’re not sure.
Still, their words know that we isolate
and abuse them, split and twist and lie with them,
that they are hard done by, that they get old,
jumbled and confused, get left places where
they ought not to be left and ‘re-purposed’
out of retirement when they should be left alone.
And too, they get lonely and search for
solace and meaning between where they are
and where they aren’t, but mostly where they should be,
but again aren’t, and how they sum up.
Usually they don’t, sum…
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