I write trash like everybody else.
\nPearls, tin cans, the heap of history
\nmade of paper snowballs.
\nLetters never sent.
\nFailures of passion.
\nIn our best clothes
\nwe tidy ourselves,
\nthrow trash in boxes,
\nand present ourselves
\nlike a flower,
\nthat felt no storm, cold
\nin its gestation.
\nThe flower opens its petals
\nin longing.
\nThe pale of morning
\nor the fire of noon.
\nWe are not trash.
\nWe do not deserve the barrel,
\ncollecting the distaff
\nof our joy and suffering.<\/p>\n
I write trash that has
\nthe destruction of the lotus
\nin its center.
\nThe old face that is a child.
\nIf I were the sea
\nI would want to collect
\nall the debris left of a life,
\nand carry it in my tide,
\nto the sepulcher of my depths,
\nand tell all the life in my heart,
\nthis is an orphan,
\nready to be born.
\nSing to it.
\nStroke its wounded heart,
\nand when we\u2019re ready,
\nI\u2019ll send it back
\nlike a beautiful shell,
\nnot trash at all.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I write trash like everybody else. Pearls, tin cans, the heap of history made of paper snowballs. Letters never sent. Failures of passion. In our…<\/p>\n