poetry,
on a
strange
day,
is in swirls
through time
in a rainy sky.
it's six am
somewhere,
while it's twelve
in the afternoon
somewhere else.
here
it's just
today.
the knock
of the bottom
of our
cups
put on the
top of the table;
the swish,
swoosh,
******
of the outside
when a visitor
opens the door.
i am afraid
i will forget
my words,
and that you
will ask me
of the world
and find that i
know nothing.
but you talk
about oranges.
piquant, ...sweet,
and simple — i
find it easy
to talk about
oranges.
almost
comforting
to imagine it
in tea and made
into jam, and had
for breakfast.
sounds of cutlery
and steam from
the coffee machine;
the smell of
winter air.
this is not
a big moment —
big moments
scare me.
this is
inconspicuous.
you are
shy, and
i am unpredictable.
and you have
brought me
wildflowers.
inside,
it's still today;
outside
... i'm not sure.
look —
there is a moon
in the morning,
and there
is poetry
in the sky.
where do we
go from here?