The World Above

8th month

Oh when I speak of love,
I am a wandering kite made of mist,
enveloped by murk;
as I speak to my love,
I do not write to a lover
Not even to someone who saves
a palm of promises and keeps
a memory of my ghost in his pocket

 

This, a feeble paper of poetry
is again a whisper from the underground

But down here the view is still precious;
my love lives on the grandest mountain-
for that I see beyond these stone walls
and never forget to rise