DISCLAIMER.
Do not expect this poem to pool in the impossible cup
of your hands. It should stream as sand
turned to mercury unless, of course, my intentions
run false -- which they often do, leaving the wrong impression
in a copper, hard-river residue that's limed up
many a rib cage. Neither think to know
what I'm up to; certainly the tomfools with their wild verse
and drunken, brambly walks and ripped jeans
know my purpose from the top of this hill of words.
I anticipate that they have stopped at the title to claim and claim
across the chasm, their voices barely reaching
us, here, siphoning through
on cliff-stairs, as water again
through close and nervous words.
