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Spaghetti knots

grenade, lemonade

i have lived my life

as though i died thirty years ago

as though i were a soft murmur of snow

before the avalanche

as though i am

in a woods i do not know the name of

shaking off the snow and the cold

into a fire from trees that have grown

for hundreds of years

until i needed the warm to think there

about enlivening the days

as though there was no more as though

realizing that one of these days will be it

and yet

not enough of it either

for i have so much more

left to say

but the words do not follow

 

alright alright

maybe we need to cut more down

*

breathe the air of new places

of the smells of smells you have not smelt yet

of confusing sentences that reap no reward

that go on without awareness of presence

that are their own gift there where there is there

where others are not

you alone

sitting with them

suffocating slightly

on a tongue tumbled and lungs lost

from the next moment

the next smell

the one where you are five again and try a lemon

for the first time

the one where you are 95 five never again and try it

for the last

the one in between that registers little except for a topping

on a dish that was cooked for another

who will remind you when it is served

that they never liked lemons

and this is the problem

and are you even listening

or are you thinking of some poem

some place

far from here

 

the kitchen smells of lemons

then

always

of rot

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About kacperniburski

I am searching for something in between the letters.

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