Tuesday, 12 January 2010

Pages, Receipts

In our time, everyday is a new play on giving up.

I haven't written in so long I'm not sure how I feel,
designed for me I do not know what, if anything, designed for me.

Without loving people like you I don't have any words,
pages and receipts flag in the wind,
and if you let me in I promise to write every day and to ink in a true smile or two.

What am I like that I should write? -
The very verb frightens every invisible bone down to the cold toe that hangs
from the pink covers in your room.
The word, poet, is indignant.

With a door open, I left a house and never came back to it.

In another time, we were filled with love,
Now I search for fullness and feeling like a simile.

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