A write pad is sprung on my time before morning, near a balcony leaping into the mildly diluted night.The paled moon has not diluted it but rather a daily sun for our time.
Still a mere thought in poem space ,beyond my curtains with its flowers blooming innocently like real ones.
The lines go on in higgledypiggeldy. A new theme on space is imposed, a poem by chance, a certain spring’s gorgeous nothings like naughty poet aunt who wrote them time ago. She persisted to write posthumously- What an idea, this business of dying,before poems spring on poem space.
How exciting to die in poem space !
(Gorgeous nothings by Emily Dickinson)