Len Gurts on a Soapbox Outside the Library Just Before He’s Arrested

How could it be
that the turn of a headless finger (there we go)
could face me here as I have forgotten? She will analyse

my lost or found love of what I had not, as it all
depends on the stage of my career, the overall urge
becoming a soft lean (what?!) fed up with me, me, already, two chances

by the names of “Art” and “Social” ready to present themselves
as engaging. I was going somewhere of late, the yard
full of tedium: I had something I promise but perhaps I should have

let them go, my attempts at the marriage
proving false. Plus you don’t have to tell me.
I did twist my finger! I did!

Not and—but—would you invite anything other than yourself
to the ceremony: those that throw nouns, glass houses (relates to fingers).

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