Distribution Automatique

Thursday, May 15


I got drunk on my anger.
I sang my song to you without words first.
But later I spoke in anger.
I don't remember now what I was saying.

Maybe you were thinking of seagulls or the
dead earth welcoming a flower.
Maybe you were tired and resonant
like wood drums out of your heartbeat.
I promise I was listening.

I crept towards what I felt to be later
and later when I caught myself speaking
again about me and some stupid notion
of respect I was also watching you and trying hard to understand.

Sometimes I kept silent. I was wondering
what you were gathering in your corner
of small secret objects.
I'll say I invented a color for you for today-
I had to do it...the ocean, I have
it all figured out. It is arranged in the form of
a sign and not a name. Later things
will remember their given names.

So goodbye to the seed of the poem.
The fruit is already
here and it will be eaten
or die, rotting.
The rotting will be beautiful.
It creates a strong perfume
that lingers.