napo six: spade/Chopin

________

Wrote three or four poems yesterday, none of which I'm particularly proud of. Here are two:

Spade

Prove you are a poet.

So she leans over the windowsill
pointing at the garbage
without fear of her passion for black.
And the garbage sits like smoke in the lungs.
Poets are  never soothed.
They continuously trip over,
thus invented the line break.
Even the happiest of poets
find the world tragic-- whether losing
their love or looking at the pink spade
beside the garbage
nobody has seen. But even plastic
needs to be watched, to be babysat,
to be written about
(as a lover, as a muse).

Chopin

formless creature
the rose crushed between her fingers

like the skipping of Chopin
Chopin is Warsaw

the brush of a blue-eyed stranger's hair
a lullaby for workaholics

the forest and the city
unite my ears

all I'm lacking now
is a rose on the piano and a note

we all find our form
in notes in petals in neon double-deckers