by Atsushi Ikeda
Coming up for the constant air
Where words dry into
A stratosphere of leaves
Another morning like a weed
Would this fifth winter, no water
In the bowl, mail for all
Who’ve stopped living here.
My snow-flower politely crumpled
Arises when I have no words
For this afternoon. I go and change
The water. I stretch in sunlight,
Ponder irregularity, do nothing
About it as always. I sit down
To think and die in a squall
Of your lazy touch, trying to
Address all this time in you
Dormant, somehow invincible.
______
Atsushi Ikeda ( @ah_daradara) is playing in Australia.
[GO HOME.]