I have only so many words
Each day to say to her
And if they’re used by noon
Then so be it,
And silence will have to fit
The persisting hours of day.
And amid all the demands,
Of what is essentially
A pedestrian life, I wish there
Was more to transmit to my
Some of us have less to rub
Up against deaf ears.
There’s war and deficit
Aplenty, crumbling structures
And lame inductees to organizations
Unheard of yesterday; there
Are words hurled at larger hurdles
Than her and whole novels
Built around lesser vessels, but still
She’s a mystery to me.
If I had all of the evening,
And most of its willing confederates,
Twice the leverage of autumn mornings,
I’d still reside threadbare and she complete;
If the sum of accomplices numbered
As many as mumbles uttered these years,
Then they’d yet refrain from my
Service and wish to remain dumb in hers
For the use of a further day’s roost elsewhere.