Tuesday, April 25, 2006



Moments About

I’m writing poems to the echoes.
Life was here, but caught the eight-fifteen
somewhere. Sat in the day coach listening
to the same sound that opened
the petals of a country. Only sadness remains,
guest unwilling to go home, full
of anecdotes about. And in the rooms
I remember, words are arranged like furniture.
Easy chair for contemplation, coffee table
a wake-me-up call. I’m writing lyrics
for the shadows so they can sing.
A choir standing on the rift between
imagination and the dishes.

2 comments:

Aisha said...

but this is lovdely!
I am flabbergasted by the Poem as Immigrant too...lovely title...what happened?
:)

H. W. Alexy said...

What happened?? I wrote two poems :). When it comes to this stuff, I'm, an addict, but you know that :).

Helm.