POETRY

Poetry must stand and speak.
Stand on the broken washing machine and speak the language
of the sock
that broke it.
Poetry must stand on the windowsill and speak
the language of those standing on the windowsill.
Poetry must dance,
and squeak the language of the mouse who lives
under the stage and fears
the wild tenderness of dance.
Poetry must knock at the door
silently or madly.
It mustn’t touch the doorbell.
Poetry must visit Barcelona
and speak English there.
Poetry must rest, the main thing is to rest.
Poetry does not have to be poetry.
It must be food that speaks.
Poetry can be a confiture,
that is, a dead and tasty fruit.
Poetry can be saccharine,
that is, an artificial and cancerous sweetener.
 
Poetry can build
a home
a hospital
a school
a jail
a synagogue
 
but it prefers
to discover
a well of milk in the middle of a city.
Poetry must sleep, sleep and dream of poetry.
Poetry must lie down, lie down and speak
in its sleep.
Poetry must be buried
in the ground
and speak the language of the dead.
Poetry must care for the sick.
Poetry must undermine itself,  
undo itself,   
betray itself,
abandon and be abandoned.
Poetry has to live.
 
 

POETRY