poetry for breakfast

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Picture of Little letters

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I think I like this room. 

The curtains and the furniture aren’t the same 

Of course, but the light comes in the window as it used to   

Late in the morning, after the others had gone to work.   

You can even shave in it. On the dresser with the mirror   

Are a couple of the pictures we took one afternoon   

Last May, walking down the alley in the late sunlight.   

I remember now how we held hands for fifteen minutes 

 

Afterwards. The words meander through the mirror 

But I don’t want them now, I don’t want these abbreviations.   

What I want in poetry is a kind of abstract photography   

Of the nerves, but what I like in photography   

Is the poetry of literal pictures of the neighborhood. 

 

The late afternoon sunlight is slanting through the window   

Again, sketching the room in vague gestures of discontent   

That roll off the mind, and then only seem to disappear.   

What am I going to do now? And how am I going to sleep tonight? 

 

A peculiar name flickers in the mirror, and then disappears.