by Amy Soricelli
Your laughter fits in a teacup - it rolls around
my tongue like oolong blends
It lives in small signs / back alleys the last
seat on the train.
It dies by the road a flat meat.
It doesn't rise up with guns pointing fists strong
It does not revolt against the blues.
It doesn't bob up and down like a sagging kite it falls
like wicker into your hand
And it doesn't shield me from the truth
that i'm not right enough for you to love;
that i'm much too damaged to care.