5
there is tomorrow and he's in
the distance, screaming something
that could pass for surrender.
Elsinore, contained,
frozen within a glass sphere,
whole. Look close.
Another nickname for fear,
another nickname,
another war story
told out loud?
call it the almost there city,
lonely, spectral, the way
he wraps his lips around
get thee to a nunnery.
That's not a metaphor I can
get behind. What about
the closet, the humming box,
the things best left closed?
Another kind of afterthought,
another nickname for shame.
I can make heavens burn brighter
than any after-thought
but I'm thinking about tornadoes
in Kansas and about the things
I can't say out loud.
The playground swings
are empty on purpose.
Elsinore, lonely, another nickname,
another kind of violence,
another nickname for fear
and the bitterest kind of afterthought.
It's been a long year, Elsinore.