Living room

I begin to write in the living room
From a turbid lake of water in eyes
Full of red  pain, its tiny capillaries
Extending down as in the sea mouth
As a mapped knot of tidal estuaries.

I like the pretty forests loose threads
Of salt and brine with gnarled trees
And a royal tiger growling in swamp.
My living room is this, my writing.

I draw my borders,the line of a note
A boundary wall collapsing each time.
I enclose myself in a night's smells
The beauty of a word, a phrase ringing
In the chimes of a wind in a balcony.
Surrounding myself with fear of night
I await a sun outside the living room.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s