Conversation with a Stone

(‘Perhaps this is not a poem…’ C. Milosz)

And because I was made a poet
a lot of blood is spilt
on the neat grass, when I walk.

For fear that I will have
nothing to give back
I collect old books.

My word confesses to its imperfection
with the honesty of a fractured second.
Not that I mind,
not that I have high hopes,
only tall steps.

Because of this self deluded truth,
it happens that waking up in a desert
is not a surprising coincidence,
but a certainty, like a niggling pain in a missing limb.

I am not grateful to sleep facing the wall
but hey! someone needs to show a bit of courage
and say nothing
when nothing is to be said.

And though no one will remember
the poem once written but me,
after all, forgotten things are
the only possessions worth keeping.

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Photo: John Stadnicki
http://www.johnstadnicki.co.uk/Site/Welcome.html

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About Wolves

We are asleep in a desert, back to back,
facing the mirrors.
My hands, behind your head, do not move.

The dog comes, takes a bite of my flesh
and goes away.
I keep still.

In a while, another dog returns to take a bite of me
and goes away.
The words seal the perfect wounds.
I catch the reflection of each letter moving,
wrapping the scars on my leg
with water knots.

At midnight, the wolves arrive to stare at me,
hungry, getting closer and closer.
I do not fight, nor howl. I let them
tear my skin apart
as you dream and sigh in your sleep.

Not me, a new born poem
comes to light at your rib, in the mud.