balance
balance
that is what there is
you should write a poem about that he told me
it is on this moment of balance that i must end
Camus wrote
and there i think is something we could do
a moment given over and caught
a summon of tight shoulders and clenched jaws
whether
in tomorrow or the next
the stability
of which we have none
seventh avenue holds the feet
of winter's left-overs
salt filled gutter pulp and
i want
to shatter that bitch across on sixth
this has nothing to do with a cat call
i am on my side of the street
i don't want your man
and my clothes are my own
my words come from somewhere
someplace
where it is only accessed by key and
i want nothing from you
especially that look in your eye
where is the balance in that
you can look at me all you want
that never means i can tell
"you sure are fine baby you must break hearts everyday"
doesn't mean i listen
you push into my province
(where after all i had been standing on the corner)
it must be on my shoulders
my balance is the one out on the patio
and the lawn chairs were all but stored for october
this was something that didn't come with the instruction book
this was a place the gateways had forgotten on the map
this was a kilter thrown off by chance
and i know where you keep your half-hidden sorrys
i know where those eyes have been
i know how the streets count up
fifth sixth seventh
it is what you don't know that throws it off
it is where someone allowed that blue too much latitude
it is the knife between ankle and boot
this is balance
this is symmetry
and this is what you want me to write?
