RIC S. BASTASA


Words As Excavation Tools - Poem by RIC S. BASTASA

the blades of the electric fan
are making the usual noise in a very warm room
where air is nil
where loneliness reigns like a queen
of sorrow

its chatter seeps in the green curtains by the window
where a bowl lies there empty because the gold fish died
because a cat hit it with its paw but did not eat it
and it lays wasted on the floor

it is noisy
gyrating like a body
it is boring a hole in my
ear
but actually i do not mind it anymore

my noise is louder
and i am trying to figure out what it is really
by writing about it

are words tools of excavation
can it exhume a dead idea buried a long time ago
because it has been painful?


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Poem Submitted: Monday, February 4, 2013

Poem Edited: Monday, February 4, 2013


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