Yesterday night I talked to a wall,
a brick red barrier off which bounced
my monologue like a bad mystery.

The words were stale, like bad breath
before a beautiful morning kiss. They
had been festering far too long in closed confines.

They talked about desperate, unsatisfying sex,
about violence weakened by desire, about the
arc of answers that dug into my dull senses.

The night faded into neat patches of Indian ink
but my speech continued with only broken
mortar as my mute spectator.

I talked about the insistence of innocence, about
the precious pursuit of politeness, about the mystery of your
marriage to mediocrity, about the mechanics of martyrdom.

It is difficult to define the direction of ignored words,
they have a life of their own, seeping into skin like sunshine
on nights when the world is weeping big fat whispers.

The thrust of my argument fell on the ears
of an unpainted understanding between three neighbors.
The bricks broke rank with their sleeping masters to listen at last.

So I talked to them about the angry appearance of silence,
about loneliness that surfaced like a sudden itch,
about moments that mattered most when you and I last made love.