Hamlet is bleating
I can hold my
for as long as anybody; or,
I just cannot seem to groan enough.
Who will take the shells away
from me? Am I not making waves yet?
I take pains, a turtle-dash a day,
until I get there to claim my pit.
I love the sting of gashes under
my feet. Some skill I never learned keeps
my throat awake to amniotic laughter;
God, am I still aloft this deep?
I just cannot seem to croak enough;
this is the way I want to sign off.
I bother for
opinion on the weather;
I mean, I tend to lose my
way around the familiar.
I have stalled here for too long,
the days of the world begin
to smell; I admit I need
a new shirt to falter in.
Saints and angels are marching
in; I sense something crucial
about to happen. Sendoffs
hem the incorrigible.
There are now enough stones to
go around, dear folks; I guess
I have to show you next a
side of my face that heals best.
I mean, you can shake me down,
cut me all up limb by limb,
and burn what is left of me:
I belong to something green.