False Lights, Termites, Stones
we are
to them
always
the image
of departure
and so it
seems to
be, as
always,
sadness that
they smell
on our skin
our hair
they imagine
bags and all
the stuff that
must be
there
they hear
the sound of
buses honking
and waiting
they like to
close the
doors of the
house
and see to
it that all
windows
are closed
what they always
see in us
is the look of
misery
of time wasted
of
dripping water
that
dries the moment
it meets
an arid
soil
i sigh to all
these
wrong notions
but i only
have silence
to offer
before their
altars
they are not gods
and i guess
tomorrow
early morning
i simply
have to destroy
them
these plasters of
Paris
these cranky
obsolete
stones
these false lights
termites and
pests of
my wooden world
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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