The Poem As A Form Of Confession Poem by RIC BASTASA

when you read my poem
you begin to say that i must have been confessing
about a past and it is my subconscious who is always speaking
apparently you
notice the coming and going of a soul
to its favorite place
talking in the first person
sometimes you begin to piece the different forms
of metaphor: an image of mother, a naughty son
a flock of sheep, an old house by the river,
green hills, ripples of the sea,
leaves falling,
you connect chain to another chain
always bearing in mind
that one who tells the truth cannot forget
a story.

i used to believe in what i write
and chose those which i must believe in
but somehow i have changed: i now want to write for
those i do not believe anymore.

a black book, an access code,
a blue bird, a caterpillar, a cat on top of the
dog's head.