Thomas Lux Poems
|3.||The Voice You Hear When You Read Silently||12/12/2013|
|5.||He Has Lived In Many Houses||1/13/2003|
|8.||The Road That Runs Beside The River||1/13/2003|
|9.||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|
|15.||The Man Into Whose Yard You Should Not Hit Your Ball||1/13/2003|
|16.||A Little Tooth||1/13/2003|
|17.||A Library Of Skulls||1/13/2003|
|19.||"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,
The artisans of this room, who designed the lamp base
(a huge red slug with a hole
where its heart should be) or chose this print
of a butterscotch sunset,
must have been abused in art class
as children, forced to fingerpaint
with a nose, or a tongue. To put this color
green--exhausted grave grass--to cinder blocks
takes an understanding of loneliness