Come to the darkness of the confessional
Above the parapet wall, in the sky beyond
The waving of  trees , some rustling papers
Below the basement of yesterday's school
And touch the poets, between their words
Between folds and smell their moth balls
Where they had lain tucked in their sheets.

Write chunks of white poems on black night.
Your poetry must be of  your narcissistic self
Morbidly touching the way the tree waves
In your darkness, a schoolgirl laughs in sleep
Over yesterday's homework in a waving paper
Below a basement, between pictures of gods.

Poetry is confessional, some redness in face
Looking into crevices to let things not sleep.
But sleep alone will deliver up  your confession
As you turn to your side to face a blank wall
Where  beginning ,  middle are not pictured
And the end turns out to be a breath, a lack .


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