What goes on inside

We want to know yet what we goes on inside. And the morning came ,as the poet said. Mark my dream as the poet Strand might have said. The morning is just a dream. The cuckoo in the tree above is the very morning. Below our dream is green bench with cuckoo thoughts.

Somebody will some day weave the foggiest plot around it some day. My body will not figure in it and will be a third party sleeper doing nothing of it.

* Prose with poet’s head
That is what Luc Sante said about his books. We all write prose not as a narrative of what happened in the past but of what is happening right now on this very page .That is how we write our early morning poems.

That is how a poet’s head works on waking up from forgotten dreams.

* Poet’s head
A poet’s head is just an ordinary head under open skullplates.Somebody said his head was open to the stray wind with its flying leaves .The old leaves just float and fly about.

Their noise on the asphalt floats as a single sound of solitude.