the fete
a little artaud
by the light in the window
a smudge of liquor at the feet
of the buddha
we dance in the circle
falling down for ourselves
the grass is still wet
it smokes in the morning
the weight of the world
around her neck
the pot on the stove
sings to itself
the magic of a poem
no one has heard
rests in our ears
as we watch for the night
how romantic.
Ahhhh. I like this very much and I feel like it's a side of you that you don't usually share in your writing. Methinks you should show this more often.
thanks, after a year, I too am glad to read it.