Words are our breath

Now on the green bench I try to recall how the words sprouted in the night’s wasteland. The poem was all about it.

On dark nights we ferret out our poems
From deep sleep, from a sky of nothing,
A distress that brings on stray asteroids.

On nights when the sky itself fizzles out
And the wind and the water pass you by
You stop breath, to a definition of death.

Our poems we breath from sky of words
A swarm of glowworms rising like death
A phosphorus of bones floating in space.

There is a slush before hearing my footprints of yesterday and before. I heard it as shush. There is a woman on neighbor bench green on thoughts. She has now done her nostril noises and is leaving. Now the bench has her absence.

Poem was about someone’s or something’s word. A stray asteroid that has hit your smallness from the big night sky. And even the tiny leaf that has just now fallen on your shirt or the insect that has entered your inside.

On the green bench everything is a recall. An old thought transforming to words.


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