Howard Firkin
True, I can sound Cyrillic; so I’ve read
the titles of your poems, sound by sound,
slow letters forming syllables around
a meaning baffled by the words I’ve said.
The thick kid back at school—it’s all a blank.
I recognise the city names: Beirut,
Canberra, Beograd; and pick out odd
words—currents in a doughy bun—but God,
we know, exacts revenge for tasting fruit:
expelled like every other lovesick crank.
I’ll find a space for you upon a shelf
and wonder if I shouldn’t learn to read
those words intended for some other self.
I’d only drown, or choke, or burn, or bleed.
the titles of your poems, sound by sound,
slow letters forming syllables around
a meaning baffled by the words I’ve said.
The thick kid back at school—it’s all a blank.
I recognise the city names: Beirut,
Canberra, Beograd; and pick out odd
words—currents in a doughy bun—but God,
we know, exacts revenge for tasting fruit:
expelled like every other lovesick crank.
I’ll find a space for you upon a shelf
and wonder if I shouldn’t learn to read
those words intended for some other self.
I’d only drown, or choke, or burn, or bleed.
