Poem: The Utter Uselessness of Facts

The Utter Uselessness of Facts

I can remember the facts too clearly,
the quiet afterwards, after
the truth had been spoken
and settled over the room
like death, like a plaque of silent locusts
pausing before the feast,
my heart still, not beating, afraid
to break the silence, afraid
that continuing it's metronomic dance
would give the truth shape, and presence and power, sure
that speaking would dress it in mourning
and parade it around like a manic wrath.

And so, time stopped.
Life stopped.
Love stopped, and

truth, rearranging itself like clouds
on a March wind,
shape shifting with each new word,
each new revelation,
leaving you not bitter,
but breathless
at the utter uselessness of facts.

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The picture is of the window in my kitchen, which somehow made me think of Emily Dickinson. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom