perhaps,
did you hear a child weep
as you were walking up the stairs to your apartment?
sat down on your thrift store couch,
as her cries became a whimper to a whisper to a breeze;
which came quietly, unnoticed through your window,
and followed you to the kitchen.
(lightly was the piano played,
gently did her father say,
all the wrongs things again,
lightly, lightly, light she plays)
no one feels humanity like
the buildings that we live in.

i have seen too many flowers left far behind,
forsaken cities. ghost towns, the sound of a frown on the miner's face
the goldminer's face,
his dirty face. he knows his children will sleep tonight,
at least the children can sleep tonight.

i hate the sound of
golden clear voices – when their joy is alien to me. and i cannot relate.
a science project i might create
for my sister when she is eight
to keep her on the straight
path, and away from
an apathy
that the schizophrenic considers a matter of perspective.
it's a belief that past the horizon, there is another
living an alternate
life.

i wait for a response, disoriented
on blue & crimson streets
walking clumsy as the people pass in twos,
sweltering heat
rising from the black
streets, some bum yelling -
who is the savior of your incomplete and incoherent beliefs?
who is the hero for your sunset skies, skies, so far sea,
a sea over your sunken boat.

i heard the echo of my loss
come back to me
with a void attached
a simple line, with a fine song not too far behind-

a grandmother's embrace, perfunctory.
a father's love, careless.
and in passing, i whispered i love you.

no one touches the image of bliss;
no one paints the content of restlessness;
no one says a sweeter phrase;
no one hears a more lovely song,
or dreams a more clear, untainted, stark and vivd vision
as well as the schizophrenic
who, in passing, whispered
(to those in white and wool)
whispered,
(to those in grease and grime)
whispered,
(to a mother slapping her daughter)

whispered, i love you.