Ever think you’re just howling at the moon? Imagine yourself raising your fists to the heavens? Hear desperate sounds echoing in the night and then sadly recognize them as your own words?
Bittersweet Little Nothings
Marie Marshall posted “fragment 313” on her kvenna rad blog site as follows:
like a crow on frost
like the spoon
loosed amongst dishes
Which moved me to write my own (in contrast)
Or rails like sympathy for the poor
At an annual meeting of a Corporation.
Nothing echoes like the halls of Congress
At the beginning of a Sequestration.
Or clack-clacks like roulette balls
Rounding numbers which never pay off.
Or goes unheard and unchampioned
Like the unvoiced pleas of poverty’s children
Who never get the chance we did.
And nothing snores like that of the self-satisfied man
Floating on a mattress of self-contented denial.