I wrote these poems while visiting a town where a friend lives. We were "on a break" from each other, and apparently I had a lot of feelings to process about that.
7.
It seems I’m always waiting,
and it seems I never know what for.
The soup has cooled; the bread is dry;
the butter is warm; the ice has melted.
Here comes the third glass of water;
the candle is flickering hard,
and all the while,
I have more forks than I’d ever need.
It seems I’m always looking,
and I know I look for nothing.
The river has passed; the clouds have dried;
the birds have flown; the grass is wet.
And all the more the people keep coming;
the wind is weak and panting,
and all the while,
I wonder why people are burning in the sun.
It seems my hands are hurting,
and I know I’m writing too much.
The pen’s exhausted; the paper is low;
the notebook is heavy, and so is my arm.
Still the words wouldn’t stop and let go;
less certain become my needs,
and all the while,
I have rosemary rotting on my teeth.
5/16/2008, 8 pm, sunny hot day, at a river-side restaurant where I don’t expect to run into you
[Please see the PDF file for the rest of the poems.]
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“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
