|
Morir |
Farewell, this slack-jawed mouth--to speak
of oneself is a waste of time.
An empty receptacle becomes a mouth
where shadows rest rhetorically.
Where I feel absence is less important.
Where I feel this weight, this oneself;
a fragment of thought is paramount.
A picture is gone and yet the dirt square
where the frame once rested still lingers.
Dirt seeped into the wall, the wall, the wall.
Four corners I press to my earlobe to hear
the heartbeat of once was. Its faint
palpitations murmur:
Don't desire what's not anymore, silly woman.
I count steady streams of air--mobility must
be established, exacted. I'm allowing
this curiosity to free itself from my wind
jacket.
Remove the air, I’m an ideal.
So is my jacket.
copyright 2007
Matina
Stamatakis |
