Dark water loads the clouds. Shall we slide down
the silver ropes, clink teacups in the crash,
run for our wits? Your face in splinter-flash
looks goddamn gorgeous—then a streak of frown
shatters the flimsy glass of tinker-town.
I tumble silent but I tumble rash,
gnashing my thoughts, for lack of else to gnash,
rolling around without a rule or gown.
When measure loses measure, that's called pride,
and that explains the slide.
It makes no sense but happens anyway.
I could load up the air with wails of why,
but that's as foolish as to say I'll try
to silently roll up my unsaid say.