for cover when the big words come,
the ones stripped of any art, the ones that singe,
mostly avoided, successfully dodged those lumps of dry bread.
Keep truth abay with a light swathe, a gauzy cloak of
half-heard, half-uttered little drones of
nothingness, conventional riffs of jazz, too polite to improvise.
A necklace of platitudes we spin for each other:
barbs disguised in vanilla puddings
to be uncovered by the archaeologists of
our dead love.