Beginning to Be Unfinished

Shape, line, form,
Dying plants and biography…
What is hidden in a poem?

The lines come from yesterday,
Measured in confusion.
Someone else’s this time.

Can you see the empty room?
The windows closed,
The papers fade away.
Hear the radio turned down, not off.

Every poem a mood, a mode,
A way into human temperament,
Into the matrix of language…
Particular, historic.

San Francisco 2009,
Sunday morning before the blues.
The warmth of my own body
After a bath,
The ocean in my ears
Before her voice.

Take another sip of coffee.
Listen to the radiator.
Make no footnotes.
Return to the easel.

Sorry about the double posting. The brain is quicker than the eye sometimes.

cheers,

Peter