Welcome to the universe of “small,”
where black and tortured moods creep in, prevail:
We tend to talk too much, or not at all,
taut-stretched on verbal racks, and hard as nails.
I’m feeling gusts that blow the truth around,
now venturing one eye into that cave
(so desolate the light and oozing brown),
I recognize myself, but cannot save
Some meaning of this day to justify
more conversations ending in a draw.
Pointing east and west and not to fly:
Convoluted love a rasping “Caw!”
|And finally, alone.|
Silent back to back on shaky bough,
we want to say, to ask, but don’t know how.
Poem, photos: KW