The world is
children behind bars:
their play areas like
Alcatraz: memories of
black figures
walking past them
in the slitted sunshine.
The world is the sun
blistering with its love,
unable to contain itself,
its being, its joy, its
will to power: its joyeux de
vivre, insolation.
The world is trees breaking
into wind, their music the
music of leaves. And the world is
a series of invisible gestures,
presents, wishes, misspent moments,
kindred hours, harsh words,
loving words, loving scorn:
my heart trailing
invisibly
like a wet slug
up to your door.
No comments:
Post a Comment