Today I’m posting another old poem, this time prompted by a cat – triste y azul** – who seemed to think he was in a cage:
Workspace
How can I write,
caged in by walls,
smothered by cushions
and draped curtains?
Even my balcony is barred
like a prison cell.
Continue reading “caged”
Sometimes the sky seems solid: there are no thoughts; no words; no voice. Sometimes there seems to be no poet.
Aphonia
I have lost my voice.
The murmur of the traffic is enough
to drown the sound of my ideas. Star grit,
like broken oyster shells, embeds itself
in my soft palate and I choke
on smoky clouds as I aspire
to the feathered tops of pine trees.The moon dissolves,
a luminescent coughdrop,
liquid on my tongue.
don't confuse the narrator 