The poet does not stand
atop of creation,
the world’s veins
drip their silent desire
over the poet’s thoughts.
The poet struggles,
upstream the imaginary,
irremediably crushed by emotion
that has the absurd behavior
of a happy ant.
The poet does not hold reality
but rehearses the repetition
of genesis and the dangerous
length of decay.
A recluse whose language
is tired of the simpler flowers.
The poet knows why
cannot be unearthed from his tongue.
Two or three words
have the function of
weightless evenings.
There is some truth
in the smells that drove
him to mindless ecstasy.
There must be falsehood
when he attempts to season
the Silence with adjectives.
The poet recalls
feelings as the leaves
of the tree of life.
The poet hums
on the road to another delusion;
and uncertain of the meaning
of anything, smiles at the stones
that he dreams under his feet.

Absurd Poetry