It¹s Raining
Here in this place a forgotten past
The smells of damp wood, of mold, of dusty books, of rooms occupied for many
years;
Of wet wool
Of brewing all day long; of cooked cabbage and rolls and butter; of potted
meat;
The mustached old men close their umbrellas  they make sounds like talking
of something but nothing is said;

These rooms are not here any more -
It is a place of another time that I know but cannot have known.
Will it disappear the moment I step back outside into the Bloomsbury street?

POEM FOR A YOUNG GIRL GONE

I am sad.
The little mouse, alone now in its glass cage.
Waiting.
The room with nothing there like a life.
Or a life concluded at eight with pink slippers and dolls. And some videos of us when we were happy.
Nothing is there.
Where did she go?
Where does a person’s life go?
It evaporates into the air, except those few,
who leave behind a monument, a book, a creation of some sort
—or a child.

I wish I could drink like a lady
I can take one or two at the most
Three and I'm under the table
Four and I'm under the host

The day you have to die
I hope you realize
Your life was the best part of mine

In contact, lo! the flint and steel,
By sharp and flame, the thought reveal
That he the metal, she the stone,
Had cherished secretly alone.

Heat of autumn.
Spots of the leopard
Appear viscous under the sun.

Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig
and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:
maybe it was the voice of the rain crying,
a cracked bell, or a torn heart.

Something from far off it seemed
deep and secret to me, hidden by the earth,
a shout muffled by huge autumns,
by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves.

Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig
sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance
climbed up through my conscious mind

as if suddenly the roots I had left behind
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood---
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent

I want to walk

                           on your wavelength

                                                         submerge my mind
into the low frequency

                                                   Feel our bodies vibrate
to the rhythm

                                      Of the bassline

she's six-foot, two inches tall
and blonde in a see-through-gloves kinda way
she's oddly shaped - okay, she's THIN
but she's really oddly shaped and don't argue
a french accent - I think it's mostly put-on, I mean
she's been here what, 5 years now                 but

he's always petting me when she's around
as if to sympathize, "so she's incredible, don't feel bad"
and I swore yesterday he gave me  the
"i'm not attracted to her" look

The thing isn't that she's french, and blonde, and thin
and the thing isn't that he sees it
The thing is that I haven't been accessible lately
(pretending to be asleep
not paying attention, really)

The thing isn't that I forgot how to fix what's broken
or that I don't know HOW
The thing that really bothers me is
I don't even think I want to try