MY FOOLISH HEART
for Thelonious Monk
The truth in the tale, the tale and/or teller,
here now, speak up, in the wind carving time,
ever lost is everything you couldn’t find
or found and lost again to that flame of words,
loosing it one more last time in the name
of growing older, here there, now and then,
neglecting to hear anything but that shame of rime
in the world, words whistling in time to wind
under the fine dazzling bone of something
somebody might care to lend a whisper to.
Mostly time was when it wouldn’t be said
or wasn’t spent in the wind winding up
now like a world in those stark hands that
know whose lips are much too close to mine