UT07: A Few Words from Our Sponsors

This is the story of how we came to be

The purple-red graffiti on a wall,
hastily scribbled and well-meaning,
but ultimately illegible. This is
the letters on pages well-worn
with re-reading; creases about
to crack, edges dog-eared. You and I
stand on some precipice of stone.

While looking at a painting called The Nightmare

I thought of flowered curtains,
speckled with deep rose-colored buds
on a purple backgoround. These curtains
do not belong in a man's bedroom. You
said you had picked them out yourself. I
watched as you laid on your back, staring
at the coffered ceiling, missing your wife.
I wish you'd told me you'd given her a kayak
when you sold your tractor last week.

Pelt Music

Waste-want and worn

all of the ribbons torn

there is no clickaclack

I

saw the beach that day

with the pier waving

to and hither

There is nothing anymore

but the silence of dogs

laying with their heads

resting on paws

It sits there, without rust

on its smooth silver cusp

shining for a moon without a name

I

saw the papers beneath

fluttering in the wind

letters a-run from rain

I suppose I would tell you I'm sorry

I never thought to help you

learn new things; I never asked

you questions that would make a laugh

rumble from deep within your belly -

like a whale it was there, bloated

and obvious, waiting to swim. I wish

I could hold your careful hands, look

into your well-water eyes, and say

I will treasure Christmas forever

if you could only realize I loved you

as best as I was able. Incidentally,

I'm feeling much better now.