The more you leave in the cupboard,
The more you will have tomorrow.
‘Cause once you’re out, you’re done,
You can’t buy or beg or borrow.
...
To speak in paragraphs is fine,
I suppose some find it best.
But to conjure measured rhyme
That throbs with hearts and paces time,
...
Walking down the cobbled street,
Wondering distantly how old those stone were
And looking with disinterest at the cathedrals,
And the columns and arches that rise
...
Take me to where the music comes from
To its very basest root or central core,
Where the beginning of every song is living
The matriarch of every rolling score.
...
The last page is turned over, and there is silence,
As you sit still, blinking in a sorrowful confusion.
Dull and senseless; tottering drowsily
...
So much time spent seeking
Not enough time for faith.
If I don’t stop looking
I’ll never find the way.
...
They move in flocks.
Like geese or like chickens.
Clucking to themselves,
Cackling with laughter.
...
And the best part is –
Now that the mixing is over,
Now that the mixture is poured,
The mold is set in place, and filled,
...
They fill my every shelf and every basket.
My sock drawer holds more of them than socks.
My closet overflows with them – I cannot open the door
Without getting a toe or two smashed by their fall.
...
Is all well? Is all well?
Why so silent rest the bells?
There is no one to tell,
As I sit, a shudder quell.
...