It’s folly to writhe in the dark, as though sleep,
that flitting doe, could be coaxed from shadow
and flame. It’s folly to blame your innocent hands.
All night you’ve kept watch on the shores of light
where vanishing moon swims in her last, slim
sliver of pearl while stars flicker through veils
of cloud. It’s folly to hide behind tiny curtains
of skin. You have wandered far past the stage
of curtains and maps. You have entered a country
so filled with angry men that nothing but folly
could make you drink the wine of remorse or fill
your starving lips with crumbs and spice and oil.
Your wallet is stuffed with meaningless bills,
your business cards swell with the smear of snails.
Who can you speak with here? The listeners
have ears that bristle with hair, their mouths
are washed and frozen in place. It’s folly to hope
for oblivion and dreams, folly to rehearse again
those plaintive songs weaving through your weary brain.
If you have any comments on this poem, Steve Klepetar would
be pleased to hear from you.