A third voice

I

I don’t mean to blaspheme,

say silly things, swear.

You don’t believe, and I

would not care,

 

behind the wheel

all night; I heard

the 1^st bell ring

Sunday last; the cock crew

once and who knew!

where I was.

 

It suits me not

to think, to lie with my

windows down. I came

down, fell

like the morning rain.

 

II

Another way to live is to love,

give, to spite yourself.

 

Some god reveals itself,

not at the pinnacle

of suffering, perhaps;

but during an interlude,

the pause between 2 sips

of a drink. It hits you – then,

amid the festive din

or the cool solitude

of your sitting room.

 

The mind might strike

some mine, on the road;

here inside. Not-know how,

why. The soul

is dry. Give

 

in; you might try

not to care by all means

but love.