May 7, 2017 § 1 Comment
I’m sure we are waves.
How else to explain the force
with which we throw ourselves
onto these sharp volcano shores,
our despair when we must withdraw.
The moon poems haven’t helped,
the night watch felt asleep on duty.
I’m sure we are winds.
We find every little crack
on each other’s shabby cabins
we tear them apart and disappear,
come back, whistling, in daybreak.
The dawn songs haven’t helped,
the morning birds have migrated.
I’m sure we are a bad dream.
Someone will tell about us to a friend,
she’ll laugh and say: You poor little thing!
She’ll touch their hand and kiss their cheek,
our traces all gone, a bright day begins.