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This is a poem I have been working on for over six months now. It has another part to it which has not been (successfully) written yet. But tonight I realized that it might not need it. Maybe some day the first part will want to get itself written. Until that day, here’s what I have:
I have a river
running through me,
emptying out
between my legs,
there is endless water
pouring out, and with it
schools of fish,
a city built on boats
with streets that
weave up and down
not side to side,
there are street corners
and a house that could have been ours,
there are endless family photographs
floating away with the tide,
there are broken telephone lines
which lie like snakes in the grass
spurting electric shock waves
from their mouths.
There is a moon
which tends to stay out
longer than the sun.
There is silence within silence.
There is a mattress which
cannot forget your contours,
though your scent is long gone,
which was, I think,
what most mattered.
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*** Cont. from Feb 25th post
There is a chair with a hole in it.
There is a table with a flat top that comes loose.
The window is open. There is no breeze.
The computer stares at me.
Nothing happens. There is nothing to write about.
