there are reasons for our words--
cramped between chain-link
fences, the boarded windows
that drip-drip
anguish of generations.
when drunk overturns
in squeals and screams
and the finality of a last drink
until even the streets
buckle in protest.
never does the sky care
and its fingers
rape the paint
of an old flower pot
given on some sunday, so
long ago
when a kiss was borrowed
instead of stolen
in the struggles of night;
there are reasons for our words
when we speak of beauty
for we've forgotten the actuality
of its existence.
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