A Ritual to Read to One Another by William Stafford

If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,
but if one wanders the circus won't find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider--
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give--yes or no, or maybe--
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep

Loose Thread

Look at you a lil fair maiden
in such despair but step back from it all
and take a deep look:
Because who put you there?

It took so long to cut the thread
you would stare at it loose
on your favorite dress
then little by little
look at you girlfiend!

Gave the entire garb to a charity
faraway only to find it waiting
to rip you to shreds some more
downtown in a store you would never
be caught dead at.

Still your beloved
embracing it adoring it
letting it take over your frame
not caring that the flame is still
one sided.

You wear it for him
the thread still loose
he eats you he loves you
you are a star but then
you can hear the silence as he goes far away.


All thats left are multiple threads unraveled
on the floor and wondering
why the fuck you ever opened the door
to that downtown store.