Final Bow

Language can unravel like an old curtain
From the bottom up.
But it can be a tricky job
To get the metaphors unfolded and left open
And unstitch adjectives from nouns
With all those leftover verbs tangled in a pile
Of comings and doings.
Some nouns rip out easily, though,
If you leave them for a while.
Especially the names.

But if you prefer, you can strike a match on the stubble on your temple,
And watch them all burn.

You’ll find the matches in that thing,
In that piece of wood beside what you still remember to be a bed.
In the place you call a hotel, because it begins with H and ends with L.

Words don’t glow before they turn black.
There are no eloquent farewells.
They just drop, in a panic.
Don’t bother looking for them
Or you’ll miss the others
Falling.