The golden sentence

Earth’s a cemetery

while humans live.

Let them both rip

each other apart.

*

Write me down in poems

for I wish

each line of me to comprise its own being,

each pause to be reflective,

each space to be an empty wholeness,

each moment to be distilled and complete

even if I am only doing laundry

and the machine cycles

until I cycle some more

and it does too

and both of us go on

to a rhythm

that could have meaning

if only I can figure it out

and write it down,

or may just be

organized noise

like a poem is

when wet with

obstacles like clothes and cleanliness

and me without change

*

I am looking

for the golden sentence

that would make

you with your long legs

that dream of running

but instead sit like

punched out cigarettes

understand why

it is so important

to look for the gold sentence.