At the bottom

this is almost it
inexplicable final outburst
calloused fragile aftermath
why is the strength so strong
the felt so deep
the dreamt so wild
the love so . . . human
now
in this
this is
in this
so easily extinguishable
it
* * *
how little are the unlittle thoughts
unlittle words
unlittle dreams
maybe just maybe the unlittle deeds are a little bit unlittle
but what do I know
I entered the room
where books have been written
dreams have been dreamt
life has been going
going
gone
how little is a vacant room
how little is emptiness

* * *
ahead
is simply a mirror image
of the unexpected
love – to be given
pain – to be taken
( both these in tiny morsels
after dinner )
ahead
that cheerful nothingness
has little to do with behind
behind is just the dirty armpit
Ahead
Is
Spring
before we lose it all

* * *
since death came
I am the wind gatherer
the squall controller
the one at whose feet
children should be chirruping. . .
I was not quite ready yet
but
a man has to do . . .
so let it be
come Windie,
let’s wrestle

* * *
my little sheet of poetry
where did you come from
I was asleep
I was untamed
unarmored
where did you come from
I think you are a troll – like nuisance
but my Father Sleep
insisted
that you are just a bulldog
ugly
and
unshaven
my little sheet of poetry

* * *
at the bottom
the gills of poetry are slightly open
her little mouth as well
as she moves within the transparency
of shiny waters
without moving at all

at the bottom of the poet’s heart