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I Could Write - text

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Here I try to write it, upright again, upright. Here I try to right it, upright, and how I've missed you so… Just to be, just to be with you… and I could write of the broken tables upturned, broken china, in my insides broken windows. And I could write of a wrinkled letter, posted stabbing folded, yesteryear, holding on. But would it serve you? And I could write of the dirty corners, cobwebs still stuck to me, lacy white and hard to reach. And I could write of a mixed-up morning, hands upon these shoulders, heavy, still not knowing. Would it serve you? How could it serve you? (And in the lines I see the spiral of my trail, and in the dark I see the pattern of a rail...) Moving, deeper, listen, slowly I fall away… And I'd like to write of the worldly weather, clouds over these shoulders, changing getting outta myself. And I'd like to write of all that holds you, but cannot quite see into, so come shortened parables. I'd like to turn upon the shadows, thrust upon them candles, give 'em to the sun set down. I'd like to learn from old volcanoes, spew what we do not need, what we do not need, what we do not like, to write, the silence between what I'd like and what I'm merely being… And in the lines I see the pattern of a rail, and in the dark I see the spiral of my trail

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