The Writer at Noon
Well here we go thinking time as barrels of dead words
Buried beneath velvet ruffles.
Better to be a wife, join the choral language of the neighborhood. That
Way the dangerously furious echo from the throat
Will be lost in the singing. The survivor with details
Of the survival will be a hum.
Releasing, No, keep the private ocean silent.
There are vacant pieces of the afternoon where
Adulteries of sound can be told. As for wearing special clothing, No.
We do not want to further the idea of savages in the neighborhood,
People with fierce recall, however acting frail and dumb.
Islands of not knowing. This is a long disgrace without loving
Periods of focus.
I would preach a ballad from the roof, sing to mermaids and children,
Cross limbs with scholars for one moment
In the gardens of inspiration, fish swimming in black waters suddenly split pink,
With feet rising in clusters
leaving footprints in the snow, weeds of my own history.