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Pretty Shock
The flaw in the pretty,
though different and witty,
condenses and serves
and stills and feels pity
for all his high hopes,
and all his great plans,
that wind in the gutter
and plains made of sand.
These intimate times,
through faultless demand,
strike closest to home
and send us so wayward.
Sustain us with questions
of which there's answer,
and leave us to ponder
the holes you have dug;
the moles you have planted;
the shine of your watch
in the glare of this autumn,
which comes so abruptly.
I'm here in the cast off
of liquid gray shade...
Waiting on solitude
to take my away.
I was never in love,
and never knew you.
I never was here.
No need for farewell.
Farewell.
