Crawling through the space between, I forget myself.
Nothing easier, you say, than to pinch a flower at the stem.
When there’s nothing to do, when I’m bored or dreary
I’ll sit still and watch from the window, I’ll wait
for the weather to change, which it will.
it was the first time I felt like a real poet. After all these years of trying to figure out what poetry was, what being a poet was all about. During my walk back home I ruminated about writing a philosophical tract on EXIT signs.
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We swam. Bodies –
Waves of skin, slugs
Of saltwater heat
I will not idle live and I will not idle die
I cannot rest until you make a mess with me
a human act of becoming, a condition flowed from moment and the soup of letters to the blissful trinity for love of my confessors.
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