There’s too much writing
that is not about anything.
I walk in the woods of misunderstanding,
I see foxes chasing rabbits,
wild history and habits.
I find chanterelles and telephone
lines to the unknown.
I’m taken by frankness and disguise
of a woman with beautiful eyes,
the theatre of the soul.
They have a leading role
in a play, before the heart is broken
or a word spoken.
Without doubt, the curtain falls—
there are no curtain calls.
Today I walk on thin ice,
the not about anything, I cross out the precise,
still seeming and feigning
have precise meaning.
I write with a touch of the unsaid,
meaning that is not read.
I’m thankful and grateful the moon is bright.
I’m grateful there’s no moon tonight.
—2018