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Descartes and I did not exactly chime,
but loved ones denied me many times
like some proof insufficient for belief.
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my muscles will ache and I'll remember what it means to dream
those gentle slow days
smeared in unctuous dreams
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Once I had a compass, a tailwind, a cross breeze
but now my home is empty-handed except for me.
Only when the sun goes down and the audience
returns to its own element, sated and benign in its
dream of me, do I have a chance for mine.
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the people all asleep
and streets and squares have grown quiet
in the mobile cranes of words
in the ship-holds of poems
in a baltic mouth breathing
the northern lights’ cold
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Who will mourn this tree with me?
Who will eulogize this tree?
Who will embrace its thick knotted trunk,
As it ultimately crashes down onto the hard asphalt?
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For all things have turned into words, tasteless, scentless,
Formless, sensationless, meaningless, even wingless.
Staying silent is all that is left then,
Or writing verses about writing poetry. As
A real poet ought to.
