Thomas Lux Poems
|3.||Plague Victims Catapulted Over Walls Into Besieged City||2/2/2016|
|4.||The Voice You Hear When You Read Silently||12/12/2013|
|6.||He Has Lived In Many Houses||1/13/2003|
|9.||The Road That Runs Beside The River||1/13/2003|
|10.||Unlike, For Example, The Sound Of A Riptooth Saw||1/13/2003|
|11.||Marine Snow At Mid-Depths And Down||1/13/2003|
|12.||Henry Clay's Mouth||1/13/2003|
|16.||A Little Tooth||1/13/2003|
|17.||A Library Of Skulls||1/13/2003|
|18.||The Man Into Whose Yard You Should Not Hit Your Ball||1/13/2003|
|20.||"I Love You Sweatheart"||1/13/2003|
"I Love You Sweatheart"
A man risked his life to write the words.
A man hung upside down (an idiot friend
holding his legs?) with spray paint
to write the words on a girder fifty feet above
a highway. And his beloved,
the next morning driving to work...?
His words are not (meant to be) so unique.
Does she recognize his handwriting?
Did he hint to her at her doorstep the night before
of "something special, darling, tomorrow"?
And did he call her at work
expecting her to faint with delight
at his celebration of her, his passion, his risk?
She will know I love her now,
They are, the surfaces, gorgeous: a master
pastry chef at work here, the dips and whorls,
squeezes of cream from the tube
to the tart, sweet bleak sugarwork, needlework
toward the perfect lace doily
where sit the bone-china teacups, a little maze
of meaning maybe in their arrangement
sneaky obliques, shadow