with words
I complain of my torments
as if poetry were a key
which could open
the paradise slammed shut ages ago
*
To produce a poem — once a vibrating pain in the tissues was enough and
a stock of words no greater than an animal's scream. Nowadays, one needs
an outline and an argument, and comparative explorations into the depth
of dictionaries. There are surgical interventions around words, there
are word-hybrids, half-words, quarter-words, and there is an ambiguity
of letters swollen with wisdom. And my thirst — a fledgling nightingale
is silenced by all these scores and instruments. And when you ask me
for meaning, I feel how the branch that supports the frail nest snaps under
the crushing load of a grand piano.
*
and you grew distant
as the Milky Way
visible only at night
sleepless from the cold