The hour clothed in remote catastrophes
Has
arrived
And
here I am
Singing
O
my friend
It
just so happens that I’m tired of being
In
this room of yesterdays
Where
you keep a couple hidden thoughts
Yes
it’s true that I’m the poet
Who
casts irregular shadows
Across
your beautiful face
Already there never was a choice
Ideas
hop around like toads
Stars
vanish
Intransigent
flowers
Grind
their teeth at the hour of ultimatums
Listen
to their sinuous whispers in the dark
Their thin roots that curl like hair
Falling
into beds and sinking into pillows
Please
take this boutonniere of failed enumerations
Please
accept at the top of your lungs
This
nosegay of deprecated grammar
No comments:
Post a Comment