It is not the cold hands
of winter, nor evenings
spent drinking soju,
which makes me shout
at birds and throw stones
at the moon.
It is not geometry which
keeps my heart from being
touched. It is not
the sea urchins weeping
within my skull.
Like rabid wolverines and
the children of crack whores,
Time itself is rather
surly and perverse.
David Kowalczyk
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/why-387/
