Pitch and quality struggle in our words
and rock them back and forth constantly.
I flop flat on my stomach on top of them
so they won't rise up
like any glued corners that have come loose.
One continual rocking
this language just like this life.
When you lie on top of it, it starts
to throb like a cushioned woman's heart.
Once we breathed together for the same beat
for two minutes, until we noticed
it. You had a bottle of red wine,
I had a schnaps glass of cactus liquor.
Is that what gave us the same rhythm?
Are we so much different?
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Comments about this poem (Rhythm by Veijo Meri )
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