poetry is all;
all my soul and melancholy
seduced by sweet nostalgia and lullaby memory of fuzzy golden home like dream with soft blinking stars like miniature suns filling my summer skin with night warmth, oh
all I desire
is to write.
walk, and inhale, hope for lust and angels, seek countless words,
find myself back in the same corners of world,
always dusty with recollection the way antique wood penetrates senses like past life or milonga,
the deep rust of remembrance eternally kindling my soul’s song,
no–I have no other plan
but to write.
-will never change-
is all I know of existence;
the words which procede witness
and emerge in the depths of our ribs.