Poem

Poem

Frank

The clouds ache bleakly

and when they can manage it

crush someone's head in

without a sound of anger.

This is a brutal mystery.

We meet in the streets

with our hands in our pockets

and snarl guiltily at each other

as if we had flayed a cloud

or two in our salad days.

Lots of things do blame us;

and in moments when I forget

how cruel we really should be

I often have to bite my tongue

to keep from being guilty.