Not for me are people with ever craning necks who glide up snakes of stairs without ever being deceived in a ladder.
Those who never fall backwards over a winding word, tongue thick and loose with warring syllables.
Those who dine ever so carefully with kings without heaving themselves off the table with a concluding burp, a lip licked wet or a deep rumbling breath.
Those who daren’t utter a foolish word or even an insane one, or shout over hordes of heads in gilded halls in hoarse tones.
Those who might see the last of a ship sail or the homeward road without coughing back a tear.
Those who haven’t spittled apart a sentence, sneezed shut a silence, who walk through rain splattered roads with hems of skirts still white and the soles of shoes clean and dry.
Not for me are the sophisticated dead, those who can’t see past a midday sun at a whitening lake and a diamond within, past dancing leaves that burn but shed no shadows.
Not for me are those souls from which fluid passions don’t ooze.
March 5, 2o17. Houston. Tx.
2 months ago