Thursday, March 29, 2012

it is the hot, it is the poem

I don't write poems, 
i write how the weather is, or questions,
How it rains today or doesn't.

It's me and me, it's the emptiness around. The poem.

It's me pushing away the lover when it gets too hot and sweaty under the blankets made of feathers. 

The poem is the silence and space around, that i need, that is mine, 
that is around me. And it is the sweat, it is the hot. 

1 comment:

  1. light has transpired me
    with record needles
    that read the air
    and detect the inprints you left
    poems write me out
    accross a moment, a wall, a window,
    songs sing me until i am emptied into the street, laughing,
    the spring blossom has come.

    where are the goats when there is no mountain?
    where are the notes when there is no song?
    where is the house when there is no town, no plan?

    wrapped up