JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

You see Confabulo there is this conflict

between the spoken and unwritten—

yes even the unthought, unimagined

as wind blows over fields of tall grasses

bending into pathways suddenly discerned

because we know that paths lead to

divergence, bending back as breezes

change from East to Westerly, from absence

to desire, yes, even from the secret

silences of houses, doors locked against

the night as in a window a yellow light

flickers out the shadow of a figure, perhaps

myself, bent over a desk deep in contemplation

of non-words, thoughts that have no place here

paths that lead to nowhere as I invite you

to come closer, part the curtains, watch tall

grasses blown by errant breezes bending this

way and that, now revealing, now concealing

 

Come hold my hand, silently I beg you

No words tonight my friend