Monday, October 1, 2001

Horrid This Happiness

How horrid this happiness
which should steal my words
rob me of contemplation
and hide all my pens
during moments of inspiration.

I don’t know.
sometimes, other times,
I do.

Carried away in the summer wind­
make no mistake, this is no breeze,
bown away with
the tiny blue and yellow spring flowers,
the fresh rain dirt scent of purity,
the sunny park day Frisbee dogs of joy,

I would rather not leave him without my wallet,
I would rather not forget my name,
I would rather not be pen-less
but I’ve been on fire kissing
my wounds away
and this I will not trade for words,
but I would not ask
my words to leave.

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