|
metapoem |
|
poems should be born in the dark |
under threat of stars |
come out glistening in pain |
come out |
|
as thought they could be pulled |
by a male doctor’s |
2 white hands |
from a place so hot; |
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as though nothing else could cry |
so loud or so long |
as these new lungs |
slung between words, |
worlds come out |
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to take the world in a mouth, |
to be spoken from a mouth always. |
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poems should be born in the dark |
on the cool edges of kitchen tables, |
shining faintly and melting into |
the greys of air, come out |
|
shining faintly from the creeping fringe |
of window shades, halos creeping |
a frame where a window ought to be; |
|
in a stumble over a shoe left in the middle |
of the floor, its tripping grey swallowed |
by sinking air, come out |
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on the brim of paper pads |
and blind licking tips of pens. |
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poems should be born in the dark |
in the smolders of ashtrays choking |
for breath, in the lump of skipping |
heartbeat, come out |
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from under the bed with glowing eyes |
of rats and the howl of a wolf |
in the corner, keeping children awake; |
|
from under doors where the wind sweeps, |
room to room, brushing over skin, |
whispering into dreams, come out |
|
to curl the wick in a candle’s flame |
to burn wide open everything |
|
1995 |
s.spachman |