Friday, June 24, 2011

How The Statue Became A Poet

A poet

is immovable;
hands fused across the chest,
lips undeterred by funeral,
chin down, the eyes cast
forward into time.

For time is the only thing
that counts.

But a statue breaks, real or fake.
A statue carries itself
as though weighed down
by its plaster-cast feet.
It cannot see.
It cannot feel.

For a statue is given
neither eyes nor a heart.

The poet will not allow it.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011


What was it you said? You said
something about not knowing
what it meant, and then you
wiped it away, with a tissue.
The tissue that you balled
in your fist that last time we met.
Even when I looked away, I still
saw your face. Bright it was
that day. You were sweating.
I was sweating. Maybe I should've
asked to clarify. But the balled-up
tissue in your fist distracted me.

Poor tissue, poor tissue,
how could a fragile thing like you

protect me?