My neighbor is searching through the drawers of his dresser
he might find,
since the clumsy way seems to be the only way,
those things I am trying to find
would try to find
if I knew the way.
I changed, without realizing that I changed—
it wasn’t the mirror that told me—
strange how no one tells you anything to your face—
but a whisper that I wished I was whispering
into someone’s ear. . .
I stopped singing the blues some time ago,
but you told me that if I sang you would dance,
and even though this is
the Age of Lies
I want to believe you,
I need to believe you,
I need that chance.
Maybe you’ll have reservations about your reservation
to hear the strange song I will sing—
barely a whisper—
what words, what notes, what phrases. . .
perhaps you will hear in them
the things I’ve lost
and the things