The page is the space where the bone is erased
and replaced with black ink that bleeds not
but charts a course of hard life, lived in the Earth
by tubers & roots. I believe I believe I believe
in the moon rocks beneath the feet -- in the
skeletons in her house, in the monkey's
resting place, unpretentiously hidden
in the corner next to the palms.
The marauders of thought are afoot
and let's not mention that they are slowly
falling forward, placing one foot in front of
the other, a run to the place in the park where
the bamboo shoots grow, and everything
is in its place, sacred and vegetable.
Laden down like a latent frown turning
over and into a clown's
wedding clothes. I opened her bloom
I took note of her petals,
I planted her rose garden.
No comments:
Post a Comment