Diminuendo

I did not write this poem. It connoted where I was 

stuck on denotation. I minced syllables 

that would be words. I let fly a vibrato 

where one un-slanted tone would be. I breathed 

into the lane before the lane change that hailed me 

like a cab in a micro-town of olives too hard 

to be consumed like the distant would-be lover 

who looks best from far away; the only way you fare 

is at the service of someone who needs something 

not to do with you. I did not decide to write this poem. 

"I need more time," you said, the beginning of the end.

I don't believe in endpoints, only lines beyond line segments,

half learned in that geometry class from the teach who hailed

from Kankakee and knew not much of anything that felt human. 

tel

I

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