You can’t use the word “longing” in poetry anymore…
But leaves continue to fall
They whirl under street-lamps
“Death’s butterflies”
As my friend Jarkko
Called them—and
He’s gone too.
Try speaking about life
Without clean desire
Also known
As tenderness—also
Called yearning
Aching, pining,
And all for what?
The day holds meanings,
We feel accomplished,
We sweep up the children’s hair.
Planet of the Blind 