all the poets speaking from the Sanskrit one morning
looking at the artworks on my wall
one wall from noitanigami to clouds in the sky
to the woman with the red music to
that art thou [also]
accidental to intentional
to suppressed a thousand years ago
resurfacing in the memory
of an awakened mind
amidst the distractions
of breakfast and the Arab Spring
and the occupation of the center of attention
that is, re-focusing on the present need
outside the window
where it can’t decide:
Winter or Spring?
And I get lost in the incessant sound
of the building I live in
trying to breath itself into consciousness --
who would say, ‘in-animate’?
my city my outer skin
Can you believe that
nothing is happening
When you’re not doing anything?
Peter, I like the question you pose at the end of the piece, and the general flow of this piece. Nicely done.