Poeme VII

LOTUS

I sneeze and hear the vibrations
in the body of my acoustic guitar
which leans against the corner of the heater
it is not at its place by the window;
i broke a string like this three winters ago.
I put it in another corner of the bedroom.
A white box with no perspective.

They are all parallel,
the pictures pinned on the shelf of the desk,
parallel with themselves, the walls,
the formica frame,
the speakers, books, paper stacks,
the lines of the drawers,
the laptop computer,
the desktop picture of the laptop computer,
CD boxes, little notes and schedule sheet,

The edge of the paper
on which i write lines,
not all straight
going to the basement or the attic
(as my primary school teacher said.)
Stanzas scribbled, crossed out,
sentenced to parole
until there is almost no white left.

A poem will grow out of this mess,
and'll never wither.