What dreams may come of afternoon naps
rolled in balls of fat and sweat,
altogether much too disgusting, for anyone but myself.
Bringing together broken lips
and lisping pictures drawn in music
all through rainy days with a bright sun, shining golden and dead.
The sun on one’s back in little drops,
old and older memories, spilled on the page
as some forgotten story roams around in picture books
that are copied, verbatim, from the head.
See, I only draw in the past, and write about it now.
And later, I search for all the nows going away to distant places, where my lost pictures wait
in diligent silence.
I have lost so many poems to that place.
So many pictures and afternoon regrets.