Patterns


The sun has cleared a path towards the door
sliding across the edges of the table.
I waited with the porcelain plates, how dull
the glasses and the painting that is too big
for Its frame. In the letters I write you
I sometimes ask the right questions.

When I look around words run from the curtains
across the wallpaper. They trample each other
these days to hide in the grass.
We stuck together like cotton candy,
like summer heat to a roof.

This is neglected now (like ink that runs from
the table onto the rug, you suffering 
from a sweet disease and me having no wonder drug)
like all the other things that upon closer 
examination only make stains: the sea, the
leftovers in the dishwater and again that grass

in which we laid. From above we must have looked
like frozen gods with a plan that must have been
higher than that night with my arching back 
on the Persian rug.