el poema está en la vista
letras escritas en la oscuridad
no para decir
sino para brillar
en lo oscuro
giro alrededor del poema
sepultado en lo insonoro
primero escribo
la última palabra del poema
para volver a encontrar el principio
de la luz
que él había metido
en la voz
'post-me' poem
poems with you start like the breeze on wild shores
there's salt in each verse and their words taste
like lips smeared in chocolate
before breakfast
poems without you are houses
ripped off at night by thieves
they are the empty souls untouched
by God
tombstones forgotten in winter
*
some poems are poor and some
are rich
some open the door some close it
some are bonnie and clyde
some jane and john doe
and some don't even rhyme
O-n-e:
One shiningdark morning,
I caught you seeking in my armoire.
T-h-i-e-f:
You thief, voleur, I said,
what are you doing here?
I'm looking for a pair of socks,
you said, blushing.
I have to go to the prom,
and I need socks from your closet...
This is not a closet, you fool!
are you blind, or what? ...I said
... Regarde! Smell!
Don't you feel the oak's scent?
I was wondering if the scarf made last year
feels warm and soft to your neck
holding above the chin I have bitten and kissed
or
if the Victorian blanket I knitted
covers well your knees
the ones I caressed when they were sore and bruised and bleeding
or
if you’re still listening to
the carol I sang in a lower key
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