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night has strangled the final shadows
a grin of light lies under the door

there is a feeble tracing
and the blink of bone-white eyes

beyond the glass the trees waver noiselessly
and a blank black is smeared across the sky

you who are nowhere
do not turn and never pass

blind like the sun
deaf like the stars
mute like the moon

What is a poem?

it's a dance printed on silence
it's an alarm clock for when you're awake
it's a pig with nowhere to land

it's a tree with its roots in the sky
it's a drink that tastes better poured in your ear
it's a piece of frozen fire

a poem is a perfectly imperfect circle
it's a one-legged dog that barks like a budgie
it's something real with letters in it

it's a wave that takes you away from the shore
it's a well-tended garden of language
it's a handful of sand thrown into the wind that scratches
     the air as it spreads itself through loving space
     and can stain your soul with the pure beauty of the
     futile

a poem is an ice-sulpture in an abbatoir
it's a place where lovers can meet in secret
it's art intimidating life

it's a fallen tree that someone heard fall
it's a war-cry against violence
it's an old coffee-cup that wants to contain the ocean

it's what this is
and was

About the Poet
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