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