Sonnets

And I don't know why I don't just write you sonnets, wind autumn leaves through my typewriter, punch your name out across their veins, bruised green, these vital vessels for my words. And I shouldn't be doubting like this every day in this Othello love (and I loved her that she did pity them), this silent undercurrent of broken English questions ever since you stole my words with vaudevillean fishhooks from the lakes of my mind, open to you like an ally's borders. Bring them back, dead puppy like and shoeboxed so I can have myself all for myself, whole again and building dreams from the invisible vowels in their dead souls. And you don't know the half of it, you talk of dead poets like they were alive, you more a corpse than they (there's a fine line between you and the walking dead). Here I recall white knuckle concerts on the mezzanine at three in the morning through phone lines and tears, tapping my head lightly against the glass, resigned and doubting, looking for a loophole in the stream of words to pin my nihilism to. Sow your children in barren ground, that they might grow grey, curl tightly over on themselves without your steady hand as guide, while your mind shines like cities built of soda cans where you play God each night. I don't know why I don't just write you sonnets.