Some nights are difficult for me, listen:

I want to talk about that hunger

that rises up in the old house;

I want to talk about the loneliness

that wakes at two a.m.

and stares at the deserted bed;

I want to talk about the sadness 

of old clothes in the flea market.

and the tongues lost in tiny children;

I want to talk about the woman

who said she would meet me

at the theater and the part of me

that still waits for her; I want

to talk about how bullies

hurt the sweet heart, how

the heart walks in sleep, how

the heart hides in the clock,

hides in the hands of strangers;

I want to talk about this:

the wedding dress that poetry wore

one morning in the apple trees

so long ago, when she came to me,

innocent, distressed, and lovely.

James Tipton