She didn’t like them was all she could say.
She didn’t like poetry
in general and didn’t like my poems in particular.
But why had she been so honest?
That was what I wanted to know.
I tried to tell her that I was reaching
for something unknown,
that I wanted to float up
out of my body
and out of the room and touch the heavens;
and then I remembered a moment in a café,
weeks before, so clear to me now,
when she looked away,
a crease appearing on her forehead
as she frowned,
as if I were speaking in tongues
or skywriting
with just a finger while flying in the dark.
No comments:
Post a Comment