“the old man said, “The introversion of war
is the main task of our time.”
Now it makes its poem, when the sky stops killing.
I try to turn my acts inward and deeper.
Almost a poem. If it splash outside,
All right.
My teacher says, “Go deeper.”
The day when the salmon-colored flowers
Open.
I will essay. Go deeper.
Make my poem.
Going to prison. The clang of the steel door.
It is my choice. But the steel door does clang.
The introversion of this act
Past its seeming, past all thought of effect,
Until it is something like
Writing a poem in my silent room."
“On a spring morning of young wood, green wood
it will not burn, but the dreams burn.
My hands have ashes on them.
They fear it
and so they destroy the nearest things.”
you hold a secret, a knowledge lost long time ago. or its simulacrum. and you're quoting books of Cortazar as we tear our hearts wide open. on the edge of the end i just wish to thank you for mutual decaying. and i hope i won't fail. we'll escape. fighting. for ever.
“…and so they destroy the nearest things.”
