Morpheme

Morpheme

By David Hunter Sutherland

You occur in random sequels,

speak in exclusives,

talk a torpid metaphor,

unhinge each strained preposition

with transitive temper.

Literate your charms of singular inflection:

drop the matter, drop the act, let go!

You said, "it's done."

High on you

high wired

walkout

of flash and fanfare,

stark in your

son et lumiere

so bright...so bright,

and crass in this flare of tears

falling... falling.

Into the irreducibles

of turnstiles and empty stations,

lulled into midnight encounters

and amorous interjections

of person, place or thing

now gone... gone!

The expressionless

art of loving you and memories

of another

out of countenance

still speaking... speaking.