He draws a number on my page he colours in the numbers four and nine between white and black he draws my face his pen his hand taking a picture of me. I observe I see Me he draws lower what I watch and lingers at a place, you cannot see to gaze through out of me the words are impossible for what explodes in my navel from the string of what he draws pulling me towards him he touches he draws the shape of a part of me, or of what I wish him to see.
This place, this reader, my desire to be,
found and lost in me.
How to speak in poetry the non-poetry that ignites me?
No comments:
Post a Comment