Where the poet reads
The finery of leaves inside the poet’s head
is gaudier and fuller than on the now becalmed
tree that stands burning extensively
in the window and I can state that our knowledge
is unable to cope with such burning.
The thicket of words is allowed no space
where the poet reads and the wind
in this land where no wind blows
makes the room highly flammable.
(How the heads nod heavy with sleep.)
Place on the wallpaper the colourful calyces
that stream into the poet like tears
with spouts ablaze. Can the window now be opened?
We might just miss the briefest of sighs.