A Line of a Poem

Is hardly ever the shortest distance
Between two spaced points.
It is actually a misfortune of a sentence
To become a line of a poem.

Usually, it is doomed to incompletion
Disintegrate into fragments
That make no picture if put together again.

As your name means a line of a poem
I gather the fragments
Of the meanings of your name
In my faceless palms
To see how my line of Fate
Merges into your line of Destiny.

The small white butterflies
Of your scintillating laughter
Punctuate
The lines on the palms of my poems
Perching
on my unwritten commas
And full stops
Which are usually
Commencements of a new sentence.

I can only respire
My line of a poem
In my effort to escape
The rocky prison house of prose.
In front of my eyes
I see the sentences crumble
Into the fragments
Of irredeemable distances
The stoic sparrows
Peck at the common crumbs
Altercating over the words
In their insatiate beaks.


Thursday, July 22, 2004