Poems are cubby holes full of secrets.
Poems slink into dank rooms
stale with human sweat and spit,
smash the dingy windows
and flush the stench with salt drenched air.
Poems are skeins of wool waiting
to be knitted and pearled by readers.
Poems must be left to fester and brew
in the dark recesses
of cedar and mahongany drawers
Poems invite us
to step out of the frame
so we can see
the whole picture.
Poems make shadows
hold their breath
Poetry is like hide and seek with angels
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem