|I love the handful of the earth you are.|
Because of its meadows, vast as a planet,
I have no other star. You are my replica
of the multiplying universe.
Your wide eyes are the only light I know
from extinguished constellations;
your skin throbs like the streak
of a meteor through rain.
|This? Is just another writing journal.|
There's not much to be said about it
other than that there are words,
and they try to say things.
And me? Just one more monkey
in front of a set of keys, tapping away.
I think my brain just barfed;
it looks less like Shakespeare
and more like Shake 'n Bake.
I wonder if I could read the shape
of it like an inkblot?