in these activities given
to night's obtusity,
chalked out as
I lay next to you,
( conversation twisting
uncomfortably)
there's nothing more
than a formation of thoughts
as your eyes meet the hairs
on my head, you rub your hands
through to the root, the poet might
mention," the moon breaking its vow
to shine; refusing
to light the path of praying
caterpillars..."
or he might dance, like
a monkey, turning turning
forever pirouetting
into insanity as poets do,
"the dust of our waking hours
nana into noon's sunlight
and every word unspoken
stands between the doorways
with heavy sighs..."
we risk circumstances into
fate, consolations are
withering autumn leaves
gathering and lifting to
secret corners of the earth
to be covered in trampled
snow
the poet would let the tom-
tom of his vacuity, strangle his
perception in sips of whiskey as dusk
painful departure seeks his
shaking hand
but, since I am not the poet
only the vessels of its ghost,
I will steal from the great ones,
weave it from dirty carpets, and
library whores, pin it to
the wall--see how the shades
hang from the shoulders of the
ceiling
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Submission Name: what would a poet say?
