by Ben Pickard
I should have known that seeds
wouldn't germinate on concrete,
and that a swan's neck would lose it's
graceful arch if broken. I was warned
the river would no longer hide me
when the reeds rotted beneath
her murky depths and I would lose
my sense of direction when the clouds
covered the North star's guiding light.
The organ doesn't sound so good with
buckled pipes and sight is senseless
when there is nothing worth seeing.
There is so much I should have known,
but love makes paupers of us all