WHERE THE POET READS Comments

The finery of leaves in the head of the poet
is more vivid and full than that of the windless
tree sweepingly ablaze in the window
and I can say that our knowledge

cannot match up to burning.
The word-shrub finds no space
where the poet reads and the wind
in this realm where no wind blows

makes the hall highly flammable.
(How the heads nod from fatigue.)
Set fire to the colourful chalices

on the wallpaper that flow in the poet
like unstoppable tears. Can the window be opened now?
We might miss the brief breath of air.
...
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