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.
light has transpired me
ReplyDeletewith 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
inside