1996, POETRY, Talking with Broken Objects

Tonight I can write

Tonight I can write
of craters blown open deep
into the crust of my heart,
of a hand reaching out across the green,
of words,
flung by the explosion out into the evening sky,
rain down upon the ground
filling the caters,
forming sink holes, booby traps,
for me to step and fall into,
as I pace about my 12 by 12 room apartment.

Tonight I can write
about love,
about the fleeting moments of the sun set,
who’s bright rays grasp up over the horizon,
just before the sun disappeared,
about words as amebas,
multiplying,
filling the air of my existence;
so I can but breath the love
I‘ve tried so hard to forget.

Tonight, I can write
of lips and eyes,
of fingers and toes,
of parts I’m too shy to talk about,
and of how it was forged into a pillar of salt
which taste was so bitter
to the touch of the tongue and lips,
that I repelled it off the wall
watching the pieces shatter,
fall about the floor
and regroup to stand before me.

Yes, tonight I could write,
but the tears
seem to make it all incomprehensible.
So I laugh, raise the pool stick.
“Off that rail, then that one,
around your ball
to chip mine into the corner pocket.”
“Yea, Right.”
“Well at least, I can try.”

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