JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

This is not yours, it’s mine
it’s written down on this paper
unless it rots or its timbers crack
in which case you may have it back

 

This is not true, it’s false
a chameleon told me so
and a rainbow pointing to the gold

concurred that it didn’t know

 

This is not right, it’s wrong

forbidden by decree
but the priest in the gloom
of his tightly shut room
has tasted it countlessly

 

This is not real, it’s a flight
of imaginary things in the night
but it fills me with such
a wild urge to rush
and discover new outsides inside