I must return to the world of words,

where strange syllables sit on bales of straw

and metaphors lurk like luminous

and dangerous mushrooms.

It’s nearly always twilight there, or if not,

the sun illumines every edge

or the moon makes magical shadows.

Or it’s raining (especially on the quiet streets).

Everyone I meet has a lesson to teach:

old lovers regret, children are wise,

strangers hand me emeralds or bread.

My mother has nothing to say.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.