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Turning sorrow into words
Why? What for?

To lose that demand,
The demand of the black ceiling sky
When the lights have been turned off
And I just want to feel for the sake of feeling
To not wander through bitter
Thousand-parallel strains of the same story
In loops and intelligent phrasing

That is pure feeling

I cast an eye at the naked limbs, my own, and then the other " they’ve been cut down "the limbs of the tree out in the yard out of the window,
And cry out to it
In fluent raw sound

Crying out against its near death " a crumpled spider laid out in the frosty grasses
Against the brittle flower whose future death and fickle mortality has just been glimpsed
Against myself, crouched over the panel floor wiping wine stains with soaking red towels
Or blood, same thing or another
Red wine poured in abundance the night before,
So did the guests ’red hot tongues…
Holding onto the tearing flower

Against the antique glass bowl breaking over the sink, cutting an easy red streak through forefinger " is it really that easy to bleed out?

With one hope " that the spider hoists itself up to resurrection,
The stains flow into their red mother river, flow and flow uninterrupted
And the flower grows over its singed, hurtful wounds,
onto to someday threaten to break once again