If I played guitar, if I sang, I’d return the hours

to the hourless clock, my hands,

the wax to the candle. I’d raise every man’s eye

from the lie

he’s carved in the table.

But I don’t play an instrument. Nor do I sing

for anyone’s pleasure. Yet there are times

when the only story I want

is one I’m inventing. Doesn’t a moon ripen

a voice? Or, is it the tide? It can’t be

what’s left behind—the bits of hollowed-out

bone and brine. It can’t be that after a night

of debauchery, there’s only dishes.

Trying to differentiate has to be more

than a hobby. I know I confused

lyrics you wrote for truth. I know I mistook

the shape of your palm for a talisman.

But, lover, listen.

You, who’re outside smoking a cigarette, tagging

your initials on strangers’ walls.

Listen.

We’ve got to stop them.

We’ve got to stop

our unlived lives from climbing onstage, putting

someone else’s words in our mouths.