terça-feira, 9 de setembro de 2014

Thistle lines

You scare my poems away. The words refuse to lay on the paper.

They want to run. They want to be wild.

They want to follow you, hunt you down the woods. They want to watch you from the fields, from the barns on your way home.
They want to bump on your furniture around the house and climb on your roof while you sleep.
They want to chase you through the market aisles and get into your brain and books when you're at work.
They float on the river beside you. They sit in the eyes of the animals that visit you.
They bloom in the flowers and sail on your wavy breathing.

For they don't want to belong to the paper.
They want to belong to you.