Poetry Is Useless

WRITING POETRY IS USELESS

high clouds in a drifting sky
shifting in the invisible wind
insinuating their shadows across the shoulders
of my kitchen window mountain

poetry is useless because it can't explain
the hollow self
or even the strange wildness
this silent bliss brings

when out of the corners of both eyes at once
single golden threads of my long hair
refract sunsets into rainbows
that have always been there

going out through the back door
wanting to run straight
for my kitchen window mountain

a leafy skeleton
eventually

I'm stopped quite dead
stabbed in the heart by the first crescent moon of summer

it's also hollow & round at the same time
you could fit it into your hand or under your tongue
this feeling I had when I was little
& couldn't sleep

the round hollow of the universe
glimpsed out of the corners of both eyes at once
& felt in the darkness of body & mind
can never be explained by poetry

only by dying
& whatever comes after

Cari