to the unborn

child poem

You who are born from the edge,
gleaming,
you that will taste the lines
of the streams of light
reflected on your tongue.

You whose sigh will
feel like home
because the mouth is
an exhausted chimney.

You who will not yet understand
an erotic moon on gray waters,
you whose body is as warm
as the concept of sleep.

You who will soon scratch the air
with savage fingers.
And I don’t know why.

I can only leave you
a beautiful ambiguity,
a map to the beginning.

 

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

Virgin World

The world is brand new!

     everything in it exists

they all exist

everything was born now

  the green little moss between two round rocks

      the small hairy fibers of dust

the orange flame from this candle

the smooth nail on this finger

everything is new

     visiting for a first time

they all exist
violently

        enthusiastically

I have just been born

      how close is everything

               everything has a glimmer

I reach out…

 

 

          a virgin world.

 

 

Modern Poetry