I was just asking time
Once again.
Because my words had fallen
Into night.
They were not luminous.
When Rilke dropped them
They were.
But they fell into the same
Aggregate of darkness.
Monthly Archives: March 2009
Thinking poems are autumn-falling
In criss-cross patches of golden sun,
Actually these are pallid ghosts
Pulled out of unlit eastern skies.
Thinking is so much chemical.
The nasty smell of death
Is in boat, earth-pot and river
It is all a game, my being
Your being and the sky-being
Mother-love remains and not.
