i am writing a poem on your table
it is flat
we are round
we touch across hard surfaces
but the carpet is soft
tables
are steady with four legs
i walk on two; who could walk farther
table, chair, or fingers on a keyboard
traveling taste after wooden taste;
words seldom relieve me, but
gratitude is
a solid table in a dark room, voices
from the TV, and a singular light, a pleasant blare.
No comments:
Post a Comment