Here I am explaining water,
here I am talking you blue.
Why, I might be making a photograph
with my words! Let me draw
you a picture. It is insane
to presume a wave
or blue, or wavelet
even. Let the concept
sting me like a wasp
until I feel its coronet,
of an eyelet
on a crown
it flits through.
This is a letter to the night. If you are not
the Night, please don’t be offended,
and feel free to repurpose this.
This poem is like a jar emptied out
to catch insects on a summer night,
but then not ever used. Left there
with the screw lid forever on, a yellow
scratched lid. The End.
(A smell of pickles will haunt it
longer than anyone you know
will be alive.)
Wait. I have something to tell the moss…
“I see something and I like something
and I copy it. I am like you in your green
cushions of breath. I copy it
the way you put down on earth breath
after breath, heartbeat after heartbeat.
We’re making a composition. There’s a reason
the stars stay up all day. They must have
“I still keep looking out the front door, checking
for the mail, even though there’s no longer
any house. ‘Get down off that table!’
the poem screams at me and claps
its hands angrily. My feet smack the carpet
and I stalk away in resentment, my tail
filled with poison now, ancient poison.
“This is an epistle written to the night,
the one that owes me money.”
I have grown to unlike my previous dislikes so,
there are few (murderers, abusers, etc., excepted)
left who raise my hackles anymore. The stupidity
of youth and the stupidity of age almost
cancel each other out. So it was with me.
I’m patient in new directions, like any old fool.
People try as they can, work with what they have.
But I do hate those who wear disguises. Liars.
You cannot love what isn’t there. I resent
the time I spent talking to the air with them.
Truth may be next to nothing, true, but lies
are the genuine article.