ridiculous

 

 

                              to think

                      there is order in it             there is nothing

of the sort               that one by one

     revelation of inklings               words

                      you say nothing too clear

                           we tend the magnificent               me and you

                    all built up to mean things

                                                        to each other

                                not even things

                                                              really just words for it

                                  we only meet in darkness

                              what do we make of it               i call

this conversation               questions

is the poet loved more               or does

she love mostly               from the crawl-space

       below the very ocean or some

     blued deep couch

                spread in the shellfish and starfish

 

 

 

    there is no one to talk to

 

 

          you can hear where

 

 

         they escape from you

 

 

       in the dominating thoughtless

          collage of it

 

 

      the words they said

 

 

what  are you made  of

          paper-bird

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

my heart  in a world too hard

 

   to be useful i demand

                                          tears  water   me

              float on grief

                  condescending bobber

                put here           there

                      stuck on the moon

 

            i don’t know  if i am

      my only  influence

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   nod to a sort of groggy

 

 

you and your

 

 

square area that defines

 

 

marvelous

 

 

we knew we were

 

 

nice to meet you

 

 

small prize i keep

 

 

trouble being

 

 

all questions

 

 

there were three

 

 

i am almost

 

 

there he is and he smiles

 

 

everything