“Just Give Me A Try” [or tree] or [sic]!

an image clearly has no

tense,

and therefore never a clear

intent,

and so when you show me what to do,

i ask you really

how will you expect

a man like me to burrow through the multitude

of meanings present

true

in all this absent tendency.

 

and so a swoosh on dear

red bag

could mean get those goddamn balls and

phone your beloved

as

red-blooded

man-

creature’s nature

would have engineered

already to

do.

 

yet just as poss, and alternatively old,

it might

easy = never

contact her again,

because contact would =

abusive male-red.

 

and so other thought

could say you ought

to cuddle closer to the idea of dear love-red –

but, similar-

like, this love can mean

so much to

so many: how on earth, i would

wonder, could 

my kind of love mean something

she’s

ever gonna want.

 

and so the games and options

do multiply

mad, and so the trains of thought do

unspool caddishly,

and so the love i feel sincerely

will obvious have me seen

as

bad.

 

and so it’s weirdly clear by now,

or should =

cladly manifest soul,

that any sign you throw at me

can only serve to confuse

my be.

 

and thus alone, in truth, i am condemned

to remain,

as Splendid Isolation’s

my

name.

 

 

and it makes me said to know

how lost,

and how much

and how such

and how worse i am off.

 

but where you are and who

you might love

is your choice, dear Claire –

not mine.

 

so if a call is one of these days to be made,

in all due fairness

it will be made

by you.

 

 

and if not by you, then i’ve really no

right to make

mighty hill of all this beauty you

own and give and make,

and fairly

manage to take: a simple equation where

all i now ask

of this damn curious strife –

strange, without that

sight i should

so[w] rake on be-

half of that

one, two and tree of ours – is to

make of

you one day a wife:

a woman,

that is,

to spend the rest of my life.

 

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