FULL MOON ON TOP OF A CHAMPAGNE PALM'S TIP

what is there in this
expression?

this entering into a confessional box
and saying bless me poem for
i have sinned
poem these are my sins.....

what is this that makes us all grow roots in our chairs
and makes our hands less of the arms but turning into ten fingers
and wanting more

just to press the keys and write the words and be more of ourselves?

have we become better to each poem? have we added more
substance to our brains?

are we pouring out what can no longer be repressed inside our hearts?
our souls are shouting: we are here you have never
cared so much for what we can say?
unlike your body, we have no mouths, we are your ghosts

so what is this really? this is more of listening, and listening and listening
all night, so many ghosts are speaking inside us

and we are but fingers at their command.
This is not a game not a race not even a class in English composition.

this is an opening of a flower to the sun
and without regret fold itself to death again in the afternoon

this is an opening of a road that leads us to ourselves
we are there, we are never here, and we want to meet that stranger waiting

this is a monologue. I speak to be heard by myself.
This is sickness. High temperatures. Chill and trembling.
We write seeking a cure.
Comfort is not here yet. But soon, it will be.

White sands on the beach. You sit there. Watch sunset.