Friday, April 21, 2023

After Months of Poems

 

If our mouths go on

in tiny mouse-like kisses

the air does not tell

a friend, nor does it

take a breath,

let it out that I was

clumsy, you, awkward.


If I suddenly say flower

the rain does not write the poem,

"droplets".

Does not wave, 

or think dark wavy thoughts.


But when I find out who you are

and you are that.

What but spring

suddenly under honest trees

knocks at my door

and asks to be let in.



The music will still be perfectly wonderful

It outlives our letters  simply there against  the thrashes of loneliness  among the check out counters,  wildly spaced  like the words in a...