Silence may lead deep and make me mad.
If I say “water,” it might answer “mud.”
The quietness might stop and make me sad,
and kill my carp, my colors’ golden blood.
Why should I dig a place for it, here where
the dark is dry grass tipped by brutal flowers?
Add comment November 21st, 2004
You wrote some of your lines while baking bread,
propping a sheet of paper by the bins
of salt and flour, so if your kneading led
to words, you’d tether then as if in thin
black loops on paper. When they sang to be free,
you captured those quick birds relentlessly
and kept a slow, sure mercy in your deeds,
leaving them room to peck and hunt their seeds
in the white cages your vast iron art
had made by moving books, and lives, and creeds.
I take from you as you take me apart.
Add comment November 21st, 2004