I cast the words in your direction,
on barbed hooks, with vile bait.
I waited at the water’s edge,
and I learned a bit too late—
that all I had intended was to
catch and throw you back,
but the words had been so hateful
that the waters had turned black,
and you were dying in the deep,
while I stood with rod and line,
wishing I could reel back
words that poisoned brine.
Stop a yellow bullet with your bare hand.
Fire it again, and ride it through this land.
Journey up the hill, natives call the Mount.
Pass the obelisk and the sparkling fount.
Near the hub, where the weary will arrive,
the minutes left for you are under five.
Turn to face the way of pale, fading light.
Find Park and see how tender is the night.
I find you in all kinds of places,
Cozy, little, hiding spaces.
Cornered with your little schemes–
Mischief (one of many themes).
Huddled just behind the door—
And only you can say what for.
Under beds, half awake—
Giggling on a daydream break.
Crouched inside your quiet nook–
Lost in pages of a book.
Each spot is chosen well,
But they all have a little tell.
And once found, you seem surprised,
That your secret has been compromised!