.
.
.
what i scrape off my shoe
toes, knees, chin, elbows…
is my poetry
I’m rich, poor, stealing, killing
for a word
you lay there dead breathless
I lay beside you, pickpocketing
all I ever knew about you
because this poem will be you
buried together with me
oh and the flock of geese, believers, terrorists
they never had time to reflect on
the rainbow laying over us
for you are the face in mine
buried together,. two poets, a bottle, waiting to die
and be recognised
for every God damn thing
you don’t want to see
is in our mirror
dinosaurs
and dental teeth discards
and you walking naked
writing poems
.
.
.
