The strokes on my palms disappeared
when black and white dogs
walked like simple visions of the past
i stood between,on the noisiest street
shaking with the stir of
beams brown with years of rain
They wore blood like beach shirts
with the pockets
glowing like flourescent taps
that bled into the sewers
the ineptitude of love
that i licked from under their feet
all my life
when black and white dogs
walked like simple visions of the past
i stood between,on the noisiest street
shaking with the stir of
beams brown with years of rain
They wore blood like beach shirts
with the pockets
glowing like flourescent taps
that bled into the sewers
the ineptitude of love
that i licked from under their feet
all my life
Manik - This is so somber. Beautifully descript, but I can't figure it out. Certainly it is not your love that is inept. Lacking sense perhaps, but not aptitude. That is clear. Ah...and when does love ever really make sense. It grows, withers, dies, blooms along it's own calendar. Or is it the ineptitude of another's love, that is scrap wood to our roofless building? Never quite enough to stop the rain. Hoping all is well with you.
ReplyDeleteAnnie,
ReplyDeleteAll is never well.Some of it is...Have been scavenging the woods recently....Will let you have a glimpse...I'm reinvigorated to an extent..There is also a bright light on the horizon...hopefully it strikes me soon.....hope all is well with you too...and the new machine...
just now i wonder if poetry is not all the same thing. is it that we all stand on an infinitely small point staring out (from the same point, we must understand!) in ALL directions. and so is born an infinitude of perspectives. for how can love be inept when love for me (at this particular juncture of this moment) is breath? and yet i know for another, it is death. and another...and another... but love is one point. being is one point. time is one point! but here we all are looking out.
ReplyDeletexo
erin