daniel1357 Poetry (3)

The man is sick as a result of the Sun.
The table is split as a result of the Sun.
The man and the table are results of sunlight.
I have, as a result, drunk water.
The woman has not touched the significance of the water.
I do not know anything.

The geometry of an eyeball, when the room darkens?
The face had a tear on it, the woman said.
A rip or a wetness?
The face was torn apart.
I felt as if there was a huge pressure in my face.
Like my face was too big for my skin and it was trying to bust out.
That was the pressure.

You didn’t have a geometry in your eyeball.
The sick man sat on the split table, eating sunlight.
The relationship between the man and the table, is what?
The face had a scar on it, a tear.
The woman cried when she thought about geometry.

The Sun understood the significance of the water, when it dried.
My face laughed, geometry.
The relationship between the man and the table was: geometry.
Everything, everything was geometry.

to have a line
be nude of a person

to have a sky lifted
are the only things

loss equals
the shape of evenings

the sadness of rooms
and time

to be felt is the only thing
to touch.

You, on that day of threshing, spoke
of your requirements:

to be upbraided, to be
unloosed from these blue garments.

I recall you sobbing, in twilight,
in the upper garden…

Hush now, listen to me:
you have touched a patch of wet clover suddenly,

gripping the damp earth, rooting
yourself in objects, in perception.

You have pounded against a mass of stone.
Be still, listen to me:

I know what the river has told me
and my own name.

You will also come to know the whiteness of longing.
You will understand what it means to be alone.