painting flowers when the ground is still bare
I can not write and all I paint is flowers,
I sketch sofas and paint flowers.
this is weak and weary
this new town is beautiful but all the music has been turned down.
It is hard to dance without a beat
I vacuum my bed and eat soggy rice and lentils.
I try to write beauty, to spill poetry on paper
but this is all I can force out.
just a drip from the teapot, a small stain on paper.
strum my guitar and go to bed.