These artless constructs   

You feel it in your gut
and
I can feel it.

I've opened doors.
Forced them to gape
and hang on dusty hinges.
Kept a rusty count -
tip-toeing through streets
with the knock of
a midnight thief.

And nothing -
Took nothing.

I am a mathematician, did I mention?
And it seems
there is a facet lost
from the equation.

You feel it in your gut
and
I can feel
something.

Did I mention - I am an artist?
Apt in stroke enough
not to
over-color the Canvas.

Mad mad mind.
What is the time?

And oh - I am quite the actor.
Though I seem to have
misplaced my lines, Love.
I'm back to vapid scenes
of scripted literature
to dictate every movement.

Why are you trembling?
Why do you shake so?

Love. Oh Love.

Do forgive me.
I fear I have doubted
in the worst ways.
And Love -
I am an ever-skeptic of
lowbrow knock-offs.

Perhaps you feel
I am too lavish;
Loose.
Perhaps I'm undiscerning.

Love -
This is no eyewash.
These words are merely eulogy
for myself.

And tell me -
Do you grow tired of strict verbatim?

Perhaps my roughcast discourse
is something
You
will never understand.

© 2006 Jen Cote