Sunday, March 15, 2009

Imagining October

Poetry brings nothing except black.
It moves along the yellow pages
Till mother wakes me into slumber.
She,
The astral substance of my song,
Perfects art,
Holding together the pieces,
Words, boughs, spirit, spine
Crushed
Beneath the severe heaviness
Of multiple gravities.
No éclat for real act.

1 comment: