What poetry do I write for you? How well
do you elude rhyme - too silly, too
trivial too clumsy to gather
in words. Poetry for you must be
poetry for winter afternoons, paper
cups of watery coffee and
half-burnt cigarette
aftertaste in your mouth. Poetry for
you, as you shake your hair
loose in the evenings, your
eyes like chasing fire-
flies in the dark. You, in pictures
with laughing strangers, caught
in the corner of the frame - the little
mad boy. You, quietly
sneaking into dreams.
Poetry for you must be played on guitars
at night on a terrace, over conver-
sations on sparkly blue
fish in the sky. Poetry for you
will stop in mid-line
and laugh at itself
for pointlessness.
Poetry
for you will never suffice,
like the awkward gap between
laughters, when words are
too wrong. Poetry for you, like
so many things to be said
and so few excuses to start. Poetry
for too little time before we
forget, poetry for you
must be silence.
