SILENT

this much i know

is true:

there are no truths

and i know much of

nothing

*

there is no such thing

as good poetry

only poetry in good things

like when you are standing

in a forest with the mist of a

waterfall whispering your way

towards an escape from

a summer’s day

that shortens as

the night pours faster

than the mouth’s edge

that erodes

like you

both from standing under

the waterfall

and from leaving it

a result you believe

can’t be so bad

for if this thing isn’t good

what is

*

the city is a pulse

of pollution

that ends itself

naturally

*

aren’t you afraid

that people will misinterpret

no

i am more afraid that

they won’t interpret

and worse

that they will not have

the chance to get it wrong

for my fear of me and them

will make me them

silent

unknown

misinterpreting me

as you