Speech City
"Une façon de dire, qui ferait
Qu’on ne serait plus seul dans le langage."1 - Yves Bonnefoy
In this room of paper I sit with my ear to the dark.
Sleepless, I am listening to the night with its sounds
of sleep, as hours sift through all the rooms
of the heart, uncovering again the river that is your
flowing laughter. O, would you believe me if I said of the all dream cities
I will travel to tonight, it is in your voice's echo that I wish I was sleeping tonight?
[1] A way among words, so that our solitude in language ends.
My Poems
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Ghazal
In those rooms of first spring rain, is it now possible to live again?
With such thirst for dusks with her, is it possible to even live again?
Another swarm of winter days is fast approaching through these trees of loss. The ground, today covered in maple red, is too fraught with pain to walk across.
Was she just traveling in the train, which happened to halt on an adjacent rail? Now these smoky nights on the plain are spent walking to that spot to no avail.
Mornings of self talk; mumbling about Adrienne and questions to self again.
To be able to answer, Sashi, you should first ask if you loved or not again.
My Poems
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Waking Hazards
En route to an airport,
From over a high drawbridge,
signs visible through redness:
"Stop the killings now. Budweiser, born on 10 8 2007." And others promising heaven. In the distance a fluorescent seaport before dawn glowing like a Nazi death camp.
It is in this state of bruised sleep That my body quivers for you, Adrienne, Like a dog dreaming about hares It will never catch.
My Poems
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