not just a little …
I wrote my poem and I cleaned the extra ink
I impressed the letters with gold leaf
I drew daisies and buttercups
I made small holes in the paper with a needle
as if my poem were supposed to stay here like a special gift cake
and you did not even look at it
I told you why I like the tall stained glass at Sainte Chapelle
and the smiling angels from the Chartres cathedral
I explained to you how I feel about Gaudi’s blossoming stone
resembling castles made by children from fine sand and sea water
I cried for all the beautiful things
I saw rainbows through my eyelashes
I raised my hands in prayer
like the open mouths of swallow chicks under the eaves
but walls glided between my fingers
wherever I opened a window there was another wall facing it
colder and colder walls as if I were a Cinderella
working out my soul in vain
not a single letter in my mailbox
not even the image of a heart copied with carbon paper
from a discount drugstore catalog…
and I still love you after all
I am the poet without readers,
my eyes catch snowflakes in the clouds,
my fingers ramble through the cinders
of a late season closing doors.
Staying awake, gazing at stars
my rebel dreams vanish away
old songs are smothered in my years
where rhymes can’t find their proper pairs.
Now my embroidered lace is yellow
like pages that were never turned
the print that shaped the verse is old,
in a blind desert a blind train.
From corner to corner
a light trembles in the heart’s chambers.
Do I really know if the world
is on the back or in front of the mirror?
The truth is burning in moonlight
lighting a deserted hearth.
It snows with white pages and white cinders,
The poet covered his dream in thousands of eyelids.
Me… I’m just looking through the eyes
of a torn wings bird.
I met a man in a strange bazaar
arranging his small stand to sell
dead or alive books
so fantastic so real
I asked him what’s their use
he answered that this depends
upon the light cast where you open them
your heartbeat’s speed and power
your eyeglasses and other accessories
I didn’t reply and went back on my way
I didn’t understand at all
that fire blazing high behind
that gaze of a bird with torn white wings
those red eyes fallen in the dust
like resin from an old tree bark…