Sonnet CCXLVII

I wish I could just mail this snapshot to your mind;
enclose it in a postcard’s monumental square:
for how these words dilute the how and when and where -
but now they’re all I have. I save the scraps I find
and knit them. Knit them. Knit them, hoping something’s right.
And no, it’s never perfect – never is. Despair.
My strange despair. I edit, groping, grasping air –
and all these lowly, meagre words are all I find.

Oh, just as well, I guess. Indite, indict my soul:
extract experience and hang it here in gold.

Or silver’s passable. Or maybe bronze or black.
Or blue, all splattered in explosions all in rage;
on napkins from the pizzeria; Yellow’s page;
a rotting test; or salvaged splinters – wooden track.