Of moods, choices, feelings.
Why does a Cimmerian night
Gather in the mouth?
Why are there so many places
That are interchangeable, and why
Do days merge?
I have to talk about rivers
That defeat themselves
By keeping alive.
I only know about objects
That birds lose, but
I can talk for days
About mundane tools with bitterness.
What we have today
Are not memories -
They are faces with tears,
Throats with bruises,
Anything that drops from
Wet autumn leaves.
We hold onto days
As if they nourished
Feeding them with our own blood.
Scattered fragments
On scraps of paper,
Words that might have meaning
If anything did
Scuttle across dusty floors
Until they get pinned
Into poetry.
Sometimes we put up walls
Not to keep others out
But to see who cares enough
To force their way in.
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