1072

NEWSPAPER LOCKJAW

Passing the plinth I am bewitched
By the usual source of that sorcery.
A light in the attic and a knife in the cake.
What's so blasted about the flowers
That we have to curse the stories they recall
Just by showing up. How many cars
Were recalled this year? When they say
The language's perfect inadequacy
What's really on their minds. I watch you
Walk away. That's not my heart I feel breaking,
Snapping not in two, but to.