I’m writing you as silence comes, on a day of light words
light as quills dipped in a very light blue
easily strayed very far. On this paper, it is cold
a white cold hunched upon its own margins
but seeking the lines of not shivering under a heading
of undefined intent, from which, in loose straws, are dispersed
remote cogitations, yes, from a time when they were roof
consolidated, precisely, to shelter.
There was a fire, here, and I remember strophes
that hastened, their hands outstretched, to the sparks
striving far more avidly to be burned than for the domestic
and comfortable sense of being in the warmth. Because
that warmth – do you remember? – was one which
languished the verve, that verve one wanted fluid
and fresh, as well as unceasing, so it would sate
all the thirsts of pulsing voices without extinguishing them.
It was unutterable, that sense which made all the sense
in no sense at all, but I would still fashion bowls
deeply concave, for all these overflowing memories
that I want clotted upon your lips when you read me aloud
as one would delay spoonfuls of blood and honey because
one knows, of them, the taste of dulcet salt and one knows
that it can be bitter, bitter to be recited in grimaces and screams
to the last drop. But, look, I don’t even know why I stamp you
such imagery at the door of this having, really
nothing to tell you, from where I send you all, absolutely
all which I want you to hear as one who hears
hears well the silence, open, or better still, wide-open
and with a threshold well swept. And I’m laughing with no rhyme
as I thus suspend myself, while extending as motif
a very red carpet of welcome, always. And I will
even bow to you, at your arrival.

Give my regards to the end of the page, poem;
May the next one be whole and smell, still
of the ink of one who has just, quite simply
departed towards more.

© 2006 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®