You render me Homer, both of Greece and
of Simpson,
The illiterate poet and the oblivious
simpleton.
All obscure precedents, the language of
trials
Have nothing on the nexus of
never-ending signals
In your position, your hand's
placement, your pause and your pace,
The song and direction and dance of
your face
Whose affect is sharp, and I'm out of
tune flat.
You say so little, and there's no limit
to reasons for that.
Jane, Jane, Jane,
It's clear you and I no speak
same language.
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