Now we’re done with talking.
Tears throttle.
Words. For long held-back. Erased.
Take! This touch.
But talk to me. Say something!
Listen! Speak?
(Maybe tomorrow he will)
Words. For long held-back. Erased.
Burst out in an icy fury.
Nasty. Clawing.
an orange-red rage
shakes the skies
red-splattered.
its echo
splits galaxies.
~

“ Morning-o Manhattan”
“ So what’s tweakin you?”
“ Later, what will you do later?’ you ask, furious-impatient.
Sixteen years, Jung and a coffee–moderated politeness.
“Sit in a temple and write the lord’s name in a book”
Silence. But you were always a darling.
~

They say she won’t meet anyone.
No media. No awards. No photo. No nothing.
Empty. Beyond.
I quite understand.
From spotlight to recluse
With nothing left to say
Is not too far a journey.
I envy that.
My house will have high walls and blue kota.
Somewhat like her lit corner.