books

capture catch can't

my hearts rhapsody

in a single sun-streaked instant

&

how much time

from then to now

&

what has changed?

even in the cold wind with numb

fingers the sun strikes me dumb

i am frozen unable to digest

the little lines of ink below me

but the tragicomic world stops

with me trying to explain the

fullness of the empty vessel

the coldness of space

the empty house on stilts of A

the womb of O

&

the magic of creation.

the ink's only seen on

the snowy blank tundra

when i start again (

and the world with me)

a tear rolls down my cheek

as the little lines of ink,

little mummies of memory,

find their way in and speak

of true sadness