yesterday's poem

for some reason



i think it true, this saying i've read
or aphorism approximated, maybe just
guessed at

like it was some foreign affair, black tie you know?
this half-remembered sentence
its ghostly grips

something defining poetry
as the way that the silence
before the abyss gets filled

imagine that:
soon strain for any single sound
swear there's a breeze, hiss....
known to be so close
to that dull black soup
swallowing you there may or may not be
clear consomme on the other side

something simic said ...
ack

administered pragmatically
poem abortion makes sense for
some reason
there is still silence


~


6 10 06