while in bed i am enumerating a lot of things
that i really don't know
what they are and where they come from
and what use could they be
in my emptiness i think that something fuller this time
is what i need
like hot water perhaps for a cup for an afternoon tea
but the image is too ordinary for a whim
of this imagination something's got to be better this time
something that i have not touched with my hand
that i have not tasted with my tongue
i know, i know what it is , but i know that i cannot have it
and so i just lay in bed, enumerate the other things
silly and wise, and empty and full, and paths and mountains
and labyrinths, until i am a flash in full speed of images
until i am sleepy and then i forget what is it that i know that i want and yet
i cannot have
and i begin counting sheep and ships and imagine the whole ocean blanket
to my body and
face and then
i sleep
i am tired and when this happens
i do not mind what happens next and
i do not wish about anything
i am done.
These are poetic experiments. Man's quest for the poetic element never ceases. He is always caught in the eye of awe. He does not make the rules now. The rules change depending on the emotion that time and space feed him. He must see everything with his wide eyes gaping. The beginning of poetry too, like philosophy is wonder. Look and see. Do not stop wondering You are the poet. And everything is poetry. Wonder. Wander.
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