Dramatic I

Poetry resumes a fear of the dark,
A loss of breath under the waters
With mountain at the end of ripple,
A mountain holding holes for men.

Men disappear in holes of poems,
As if they are mountains of holes
When monks would walk in holes
As in Zen dream while still awake.

A candlelight struts and frets hour
And washes perfumes of the hand
As if they were it’s DNAs bleeding
And there is nothing for dog sniff.

It is perfumed speech addressed
To no one except a night’s cricket
Busy at its creakiest best in bush.
It is dramatic I from memory hole.


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