Taurus is a great big bull—
he watches close in the cold months,
when our part of the planet
leans away
like the sun
is a close-talking stranger
On a bus to Chicago,
I once met a man who said
every victory is a failure
of perspective.
We’re always traveling south,
if we go far enough
We’re bound to arrive
at the same conclusion.
Timing is the only
uncertainty—
when the clock swims past eleven
It’s time for me to call it a night.
The older I get, the more I see
the appeal in rising with the sun,
following it closely to bed
I open the door to a scent—
white chrysanthemums,
the kind usually reserved for funerals
in winter,
but now doing a passable
impression of a daisy
on a windowsill,
splitting the north breeze
in two.
Acknowledgment: The first line is borrowed from “No More Poetry” by Wilco.
A beautiful set of lyrics—classic Jeff Tweedy.
Taurus is a great big bull
He hid my heart out in the woods
The heavens move so slow
But I’m quick and good
There’s a God-shaped hole
Bleeding love up above
And in my heart full of soul
I just can’t seem to get enough
And you don’t have to be poor
To hang with me
Cause there’ll be no more
Poetry
The Truth About Tigers 