I've forgotten what I was going to say now.
There at dinner, half-hearing familiar stories
and their reactions, reading the body language of the man
across the room before he took to his knee, before the applause--
it was clear then,
chiseled and carved and perfect.
It was going to be something about how we're
all different kinds of crazy,
and how all we're really looking for
is someone to share, to be the same kind with us,
to nod their head and welcome
what we thought would exclude.
There would be something about how
I try to use better words to say the same things--
smarter words, taller words, words that need etymologies to explain them--
when your smaller words work just fine.
I wanted to fit those words I'd found for you into
the rhythm and rhyme I used to long for.
But in looking for form I've lost function,
and the carved words have melted and loosened
so that now they are only hard lumps, word-lengthed ghosts.
Picking them up and turning them over to fit into lines
only presses the edges away more, and so I drop them
into the glass, hearing the comforting clink,
smelling the cold, waiting
for you to come to the table
and share one more glass of crazy with me.