The carnival is long gone
and I’m still waiting in line

to buy me a love poem
by poets who still remember

what these are; can it be spoken
about dreams that bore your face

or ought they best be buried
in code in poetry I should learn

to master the art of divulging
without really telling;

or should I speak eloquently
without slipping over my words

with the tongue of a tot
clumsy but of what you manage

to hear, believe the words
since they may be like fragments

on sand hard to recover,
but they’ll carry waves of the air

unseen, without definite form
but complete like the night

that never shows without a moon.