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Poem
Does it really filter down to us in words
What if I don’t say anything?
What is the sound of your rhetoric yapping?
Books are that stairway
Whose volumes aren’t infinite
Yet with a few passages
You say you’re there while standing in front of me
What is there left to say except what you were needing all along.
Your need is deep
Yet you walk up those steps.
You see me barefoot on the grass
The grass that is braided with: junkie’s needles, scary insects, pebbles that press into the pad of my heel.
And my needs aren’t met
Maybe I’m not deep enough
But they are sounds and images like clouds that pass fast if you don’t need to time.
