Am I running dry?
Only so much that can be said
of the barely understood
orchard of my life.
Some are so clever,
yet they say nothing.
Why?
What ignites the words?
Why for that matter
does love occur to some,
to others
it is a hollow flute,
upon which songs are played,
but nothing lives in the center.
Light traveling in a shaft,
sound resounding from a pipe.
Love between lips,
a flavor,
an affectation.
Mirror on the wall,
speak to me.
Let me hear the poem inside you,
and then shatter.
I cannot bear your silence
about nothing at all.