CROCODILES
A dark shape. Look at the cups,
the bricks, the lines of children,
and try to find their significance.
We are unable. Their significance
escapes us. Cups, bricks, lines of children.
Let them be, they can never mean.
Look at the cups, bricks, lines of children,
not for their significance, but for what they are.
What they are is not what they mean.
Crocodiles. Damn them! What are they? Ugly?
Look at them! You know what they are. I have
seen a crocodile. No, I haven't.
BURYING THE ASHES
My memory has disappeared, and
maybe you were right about it all.
Why do you ask me?
Life used to be simple and meaningful,
and is no longer;
when I return to my room,
to hear the light wind:
this thought haunts me.
Leaves are swept away by someone.
At least there is heaven to hope for,
or is there? My doubt expressed jeopardizes
my chances of getting in now, at least
I can look at renditions by Italian painters.
When we leave, other life will evolve
for better or worse. I call you tonight
because I haven't a thought.
I heard the story not in its entirety,
the rain storm prevented me to travel
to another city. As I stare into the
grey mass, I envision a sunset that
I cannot see, orange and without form,
but precise as only words can be,
someone always prefers to spit instead of say.
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