I Am Who This Poem Is Making
I am who this poem is making;
this shy monster beginning to understand
that in life one must release the roar.
I must surrender to this nameless moment; this consequence of destiny waiting
for the impatient clouds of spring to turn the seasons.
No tomorrow no yesterday, just this naked awakening.
I have dressed myself with this veil of my obligation. I have
drawn it about me like the calmer clouds of June and it is everywhere inside of
me. I am this silent joy, like summer clouds crumbling to the vague voice of
autumn sun. I am
poet, poem, poetry, drifting freely like the lonely clouds of autumn not yet
possessed by that harsher reality.
I am who this fading verse has made and all it has done is meaningless...
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