Come to the darkness of the confessional above the parapet wall, in the sky beyond the waving of trees , some rustling papers ,below the basement of yesterday’s school and touch the poets, between their words, between folds and smell their moth balls where they had lain tucked in their sheets.
Write chunks of white poetry on black night. Your poetry must be of your narcissistic self morbidly touching the way the tree waves in your darkness, a schoolgirl laughs in sleep ,over yesterday’s homework in a waving paper below a basement, between pictures of gods.
Poetry is confessional, some redness in face looking into crevices to let things not sleep. But sleep alone will deliver up your confession as you turn to your side to face a blank wall where beginning , middle are not pictured and the end turns out to be a breath, a lack .