Theodore Worozbyt





deceives even the closest
and most beloved reader.
Sadness listens to a pit bull
grunt, like a pig, in the rain.
Not weight, but the space
inside a mass, sadness moves
in rigid molecular patterns, is slow,
waves slowly. In its vocabulary,
O and Ah remain silent.
Without a towel nearby, sadness
never takes the luxury of a bath.
Sadness, the chummy doctor, injects
serum after serum into sunset,
but the water wakes up as
blue and enticing as ever.
Sadness says, Say me! and leaves
a small ink footprint upon official papers.
Sadness shuffles little deaths
like cards played without cash.
Sadness made this up: the house burned
with the cats and photographs, and everyone
flew to safety on translucent wings.