I’ll See You Again Soon

You might not even want this leaden verse,

to tie your hands and chain you to your bed.

My poem seeks its subject like a curse

plays on the ear; it’s only in my head.

So make a paper airplane from the writ’.

The right to rite of passage passes right.

If hard syllables slip, then make them fit.

The daybreak plots sweet deserts for the night.

I could say, “If you’d leave, this tree would die,”

and serve to you a mismatched petit four

that makes no sense, without the urge to cry.

Why don’t I cry? Why won’t it hurt me more?

I have no heart to feign, or beat my breast.

I have a hundred more; I’ll save the rest.