It's spring, sun-clouded, rain-swept, tree-budded, and
in the smell of new things you ventured old ones,
questions needing answers, failing to find--the wind
was very loud, then and now, now and then.
The words come, have meaning, unfold themselves
too late to do us any good; not the ones you wanted,
no, but the ones under them, behind them--closest I
can come to truths I believe but do not know.
I'm thinking about advertising, the world neon-washed,
not you (should I be?) (ah--perhaps), and magic, for
in spring magic is more real; the power of repetition,
naming of names, is the magic of advertising, of words.
Or lies. I could not say them. They are not lies, no, but.
But to say things too often robs them of meaning,
just as to see the holy makes it mundane; weak reason,
strong fear: so I never said--I love you--and never, ever shall.
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