These cold nights
These cold nights...
and there is nothing revolutionary
about that actuality.
This April no more venomous than the last-
no matter what T.S. Elliot said.
It’s simply cold.
Paint stains my socks,
the walls drip
into the same pale shade of darkness.
One night bug, a beetle
perhaps, finally gives up.
Then regains its composure.
Silk leaves perpetually fall
from the window’s thin veil.
The buddha’s head, always still
in its hands.
I prostrate myself for words
unspun, rusting in my jaw.
Tonight the tiger sprang-
laid waste-
now sleeps.
Gold blood and sorrow a familiar pillow.
-KEA
4/27/04
and there is nothing revolutionary
about that actuality.
This April no more venomous than the last-
no matter what T.S. Elliot said.
It’s simply cold.
Paint stains my socks,
the walls drip
into the same pale shade of darkness.
One night bug, a beetle
perhaps, finally gives up.
Then regains its composure.
Silk leaves perpetually fall
from the window’s thin veil.
The buddha’s head, always still
in its hands.
I prostrate myself for words
unspun, rusting in my jaw.
Tonight the tiger sprang-
laid waste-
now sleeps.
Gold blood and sorrow a familiar pillow.
-KEA
4/27/04