There are no gentle words, my love,
no leaves on any tree that an assuage a thought
to be a poem.

There is rage, and rage and rage
against the agony of days, but no gentleness
in words arranged like this.

There is love, and pain and sometimes hope
but no calm remains in the gray waves
to leave a word gentle on cold flesh.

There are no gentle words, my love,
no psalms, no prayers, no novel thoughts
to twist the hidden parts of man into a healing balm.

There is rage, and range, and rage
against the epiphany of night, but no gentle touch
of words arranged in sheer delight.

There is love, and hurt and sometimes laughter
but no sweet thereafter in the autumn golds
to scatter words gentle in the longing sun.

There are no gentle words, my love,
only hasty notes, and much worse
an almost-kind thought in a sad sad verse.