For my own fortune,
I once sat down and eased my tongue, stuck like thorns in Christ
from it's artisan's loom,
I crooned and here I am today,
bean green army sheen and ready to bloom.
I am learned, I suppose.

I walk out,
across the lawn and let the crowd file out behind me.
I am the first to leave.
I am tired of seeing my falling grace,
and am ready to see a team or maybe one come out to me with a long rope.
I am learned, I suppose.


It is June. These fluorescent lights whiten me so poor, la mort, too true,
and I fly through like a curtain's gust of dust.
I continue straight to the oak room and bid farewell to my
other family.
They said nothing, all year long, in a bath of oils and age.
What the dead know is what they know, and what I know is what I know; I live.
I am learned, I suppose.

Later we stood together, under more milky lights
and I turned to you, not looking me in the face
while I felt muted, and young.
If you added two and two,
I am neither.
I am learned, I suppose.