In the time before light
You rise, glowing greenly
Put your ear to the wall
Listen to the house breathe
Under the floor lies quiet mud
The attic hides the dusty mad
Bathroom floods every corner
Kitchen sad, broiling brothers
Behind the wall is every story
And from the stories come these poems
And from the poems you make meaning
And from the meaning you make you
And from the you you make a world
And from the world you make a plan
And from the plan you make a house
And from the house you can’t escape
Until a light comes through a window
Casting daggers through the curtains
To remind you of the words
That steals the wind from buildings
Jason Preu 
lovely. “The attic hides the dusty mad” i love these words together.
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🙂 Thanks a million.
Thought about:
“In the time before light
You rise, then fold your knees
Keep your eyes upon a blank wall
Listen to the house breathe.”
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yes that works too. though i’ve always had this thing against the word “upon”. it’s a personal quirk. weird, i know.
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nah, not that weird. i only mention it, though, ’cause of the connection to the piece you put up today.
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that’s cool: poets writing poetry back to each other, like jazz artists jamming…
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and tackling meditation in different ways. i want more poetry about the varieties of sitting!
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haha! will try my best…
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Words are still
Like salt in she
Their storms come by
When Aphrodite.
(Like your words, and ing)
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🙂
When Aphrodite
she come by
Like salt in storms
Their words are still.
Thank you for the comment, for the words so arranged, for liking my words, for lending me your eyes for two shakes, for being alive, for being you.
Have an incredible day.
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Thank you very much
(And day-dite alike)
🙂
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